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RUMINATIONS 



THE IDEAL AMERICAN LADY 

AND OTHER ESSAYS 



BY 

\ 



PAUL.SIEGVOLK 



AUTHOK OF A/BUNDLE OF PAPERS, ETC, 






»\ 



CHEWING THE CUD OF SWEET AND BITTER FANCY. 

A s You L ike It. 



'S SONS 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 

27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND 

%\i Jiniclurbocher ^nss 
1893 






/ 



COPYRIGHT, 1893 
BY 

ALBERT MATHEWS 

Entered at Stationers' Hall y London 
By Albert Mathews 



Electrotyped, Printed, and Bound by 

TEbe IRnicfeerbocket Ipress, Iftew JI)orfe 

G. P. Putnam's Sons 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 

MY EARLIEST LITERARY FRIEND 

THESE PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY 

INSCRIBED 



CONTENTS. 





PAGE 


Prologue 


I 


Concerning Women . . 


5 


The Ideal American Lady 


5 


Third-love ...... 


3i 


Friendships between Men and Women 


42 


Woman Suffrage in America 


50 


Words about Woman .... 


61 


Touches of Nature 


S6 


Every-Day Talk 


156 


Shreds of Character .... 


205 


Social Hints and Studies 


247 


Author and Artist ..... 


3i3 


Verbal Music ...... 


3*3 


The Coming Novel ..... 


320 


Novelty in Belles-Lettres 


3 2 9 


Authorship ...... 


338 


y 





VI CONTENTS. 




Concerning Life and Death 


PAGE 

• 353 


Egoism : The Battle of Life 


* 353 


Life and Death .... 


• 3 6 4 


Amenities of Old Age 


• 377 


Personal Immortality 


• 397 


Nil Desperandum .... 


• 4»4 


Index . . 


. 419 




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PROLOGUE. 



Ego haec mecum mussito. 



Plautus. 




: .jA BRUYfeRE says :—" A philosopher wastes 
his life in observing men, and wears himself 
out in exposing vice and folly. If he 
shapes his thoughts into words, it is not so 
much from his vanity as an author as to place entirely 
in its proper light some truth he has discovered, that it 
may make the desired impression ; ... he demands 
from mankind greater and more uncommon results than 
empty praise, and even than rewards ; he expects them 
to lead better lives" — and, it might be added, perhaps 
happier. 

Occasionally the writer, like many others, has felt (not 
however without serious misgivings) as if he might have 
something, not wholly useless, to say — to some of his 
fellow-men — before quitting this world. He is prone 
to regard any ordinary individual (especially himself) as 
of little importance in this life ; and to think no one 
entitled to much consideration for anything beyond what 



2 RUMINATIONS. 

he may do to add to our stock of knowledge, or to the 
comfort or pleasure of mankind, or, in other words, 
contribute, consciously or not, toward the intellectual 
development, moral expansion, or wholesome enjoyment 
or entertainment of at least some portion of the human 
race. Every man, however humble, may, and perhaps 
ought to, endeavor to do something in this direction. 
It is hardly to be expected that all efforts to this end, 
although earnest and sincere, will visibly produce 
permanently useful results. Nevertheless, out of a 
prodigality of offerings, some may prove beneficial ; — 
impracticable as it may be to proclaim, in all cases, in 
advance, which product holds within it a germinating 
seed, or what may be only an empty husk. 

It is probable these pages contain nothing new to 
many, or essentially different from what has been better 
said in earlier books. Yet is it not well known that, 
while men generally talk much of the titles, and famil- 
iarly mention the names of the authors, of old books, there 
are in every large community a hundred who at least 
will skim over a new book, for one who will read honestly 
an old one ? Moreover, of the countless books written in 
the remote past, only a few now popularly are read at 
all. How then shall the gems of thought, hidden from 
the common eye, in dark cabinets of elder literature, be 
known by a new-coming generation of desultory readers, 
if such jewels be not frequently brought to the light, and 
perhaps partially reset, so as to catch the eye, or to suit 
the prevailing inclination or taste of the passing day ? 

The human face and form vary but little from age to 
age ; the vicissitudes of human conduct in political, civil, 



PROLOGUE, 3 

commercial, or social life, throughout all known time, 
bear a close family resemblance ; and the discourses of 
meditating minds upon human conduct or worldly events, 
made in the course of ages past, are, to the scholar, often 
as repetitious as the gait of the ox in the furrow, or of 
the horse galloping over a familiar road. Nevertheless, 
changes of fashion are continually modifying personal 
appearance ; the perusal of the history of the events and 
lives of the actors of one period of time does not satisfy 
the desire to learn the circumstances of later occurrences 
— however close may be their similarity to the earlier. 
Neither can the unlearned be expected to find all of 
their literary delight in reading the thoughts of men, the 
lives and actions of whose contemporaries are materially 
obscured by lapse of time, as well as by radical changes 
in institutions, laws, customs, creeds, traditions, associa- 
tions, morals, manners, or language. 

One word more. Literature is, for the most part, mor- 
tal — fondly as genius may hope otherwise — and constantly 
liable to change in substance. Being largely composed 
from elements of transitory character, or of temporary 
use, it is necessarily changeable — if not wholly perishable. 
Not every one will agree with de Maupassant : — II faut 
etre, en effet, bien fou, bien audacieux, bien outrecui- 
dant ou bien sot, pour ecrire encore aujourd'hui ! Even 
the few classics that defy the merciless tooth of Time 
gradually become only the choice morsels of a limited 
number of profound, elegant, or curious scholars. They 
are known, to the general public of miscellaneous read- 
ers, merely by scintillations from some brilliant name — 
often wholly dissociated from the text in which they 



4 R UMINA TIONS. 

originate. If more, they are relegated, for the most part, 
to the office of furnishing a few quotations to index- 
readers, or to those who retain with precision the remi- 
niscences of youthful school-tasks, and but little else. 

Indeed there is small profit in blinking this matter. 
After all that may be said (whether honestly or not) in a 
lofty way of the demands of pure literature, it is really 
upon the insatiable craving of the general reader for 
something fresh, in form or appearance — regardless of 
antiquity of substance — that we must rely, to keep the 
printing-press running, and to drive the wolf from the 
door of the professional author ; — saying nothing of its 
giving any unabashed writer his hope of a chance for a 
prize in the lottery of contemporary reputation, or of its 
help in keeping the world amused, or, it may be, in alluring 
the idle-minded scribbler from getting into some worse 
mischief than that of threshing old straw. 

Perhaps, however, after all, a man may be too much 
overawed by the natural apprehension lest a want of 
essential novelty be discernible in his own purely original 
thoughts. Even Goethe said, to his friend Eckermann, in 
the seventy-seventh year of the poet's age : — " Had I 
earlier known how many excellent things have been in 
existence for hundreds of years, I would not have written 
a line, but would have done something else." 




CONCERNING WOMEN. 



I. 



THE IDEAL AMERICAN LADY. 

from the all that are, took something good 

To make a perfect woman. 

Winter s Tale. 




HE perfect "lady," although something less 
than an angel, must be vastly more than a 
merely excellent and amiable woman. The 
term has come to be used, among us, to ex- 
press sometimes a common idea of what we fondly believe 
any good woman may and perhaps ought to be. Even in 
the popular mind, however, it seems to have outgrown 
somewhat its normal definition — "a well-bred woman " — 
and by common consent to involve the possession of the 
most attractive and endearing possibilities of her sex, as 
well as the holding in complete subjection all that may 
be unamiable in her nature. Although few may attain 
the supreme excellence of this character, her actual exist- 
ence, in some form, appears to be an essential postulate 



6 RUMINATIONS. 

in the social creed which all women and most men in our 
country profess. 

She may also be said to belong to a kind of order ; and 
to be distinguishable, from the mass of her sex, by some 
inexplicable sign, that seems to foreshadow her right of 
membership. There will be always about her a well- 
recognized, yet intangible, air of claim to be admitted to 
this rank. Indeed whatever may be her age, education, 
language, birthplace, dress, or customary ways, whenso- 
ever the proper countersign is given, the charmed circle — 
although apparently closed and incapable of breaking its 
outer line — easily opens to admit the new-comer. The 
members of this marvellous sisterhood seem to have been 
trained from the cradle — either by a kind of acolytes or 
by some invisible agencies presiding at their birth — and 
to have been so conducted, from infancy to mature girl- 
hood or beyond, through all the cabala of their mysterious 
guild. By virtue of this initiation they appear always to 
know each other, through a sort of intuition, whenever 
entitled to reciprocal fellowship. Is it feasible to grasp 
this eidolon ; — to paint in its true colors this floating figure, 
that dances in the air before the eyes of us all, and may be, 
nay so commonly is, tinged by the hues of the media 
through which it is seen ? 

It would be scarcely safe to claim that there is one 
hard outlined image of ladyhood, clear-cut, or with broad 
lines of demarcation, setting it apart from womanhood in 
general. There are many ideals in the ordinary concep- 
tions of our people. Yet it is believed all will be found 
to have most of their essentials in common — however they 
may vary in expression of details. Apparent points of 



CONCERNING WOMEN. J 

dissimilarity may indicate merely a variety of conditions, 
under which traits, really in common, are exhibited. 
Patient observation and charitable insight may enable 
one to find an identity of genus, widely as the species may 
appear to differ. 

Our lexicographers have tried their trained hands upon 
the subject. Reference to a single one will suffice. Webster 
puts it, as "a term of complaisance applied to almost any 
well-dressed woman, but appropriately to one of refined 
manners and education." This vague definition is how- 
ever somewhat aided by his own description of what 
sense he applies to this word " education," viz : — " All 
that series of instruction and discipline which is intended 
to enlighten the understanding, correct the temper, and 
form the manners and habits of youth, and fit them for 
usefulness in their future stations." 

But in our ordinary talk, the word suggests, besides 
these general notions, certain specific affirmative qualities 
of individual feminine human nature. It indicates a 
deeply rooted, untaught self-respect and an inborn self- 
restraint ; — the pith of true nobleness in character. It 
means something usually shown by such traits as dignity, 
repose, ease, courtesy, affability, grace, tact, and delicacy 
of thought — whether in presence, manner, carriage, ad- 
dress, touch, look, speech, tone of voice, enunciation, or 
accent. United with these we imply the indefinable im- 
press of an unobtrusive personality ; — importing, at least, 
a serene mind, a frank, generous, sensitive, sympathizing, 
amiable disposition, a noble unselfishness, a well-disci- 
plined temper, and a tender regard for the peculiar, natural 
or factitious individuality of others. 



8 R UMINA TIONS. 

A lady, too, will generally have power to inspire among 
men, through her ingrained, invincible modesty, a sort of 
gallantry of the soul ; which, reacting upon herself, makes 
up an intercourse of quite different character from, and 
embraces some fascinating elements wanting in, the ordi- 
nary associating together of mere men and women. 

Eve scarcely could have anticipated, in its complete- 
ness, the character of our ideal lady ; since it would 
probably be necessary to presuppose among her associ- 
ates, at least more than one man — with perhaps many 
women — and moreover possibly that they be disconnected 
from her by any recognized family tie. 

The lady is the legitimate depositary of the noblest 
traditions and most honored customs of the best society, 
relating to all its intricate personal methods. These may 
not be taught her by any specific rule, nor any explana- 
tory reasons for their authority be furnished to her. She 
absorbs them, as it were, into the very composition of her 
mind and heart, from the air she breathes, during her 
whole life. Habitudes of social refinement and courtesy 
are to her matters concerning which reasoning seems idle. 
Nature and circumstances have given her a special insight 
and aptitude for the demands of her position. It has 
cost her no apparent, or even conscious, effort to be 
accomplished in the complete mastery of the whole art of 
polite, social intercourse. 

Perhaps it would be considered not extravagantly fan- 
ciful to say that, like a planet, she has an atmosphere of her 
own ; — which must be taken into our reckoning, when we 
would measure her, or know her true relations with those 
to whom she gives light, and among whom she revolves. 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 9 

In her closest intimacies with either sex, the lady will 
maintain a dainty reserve, which an ordinary woman can- 
not keep up always without awkward severity, or perhaps 
some ungraceful sacrifice of candor. To preserve this 
felicitous mean, between frankness and self-continence, 
is an easy accomplishment for the lady ; but a task some- 
times apparently quite beyond the abilities of many 
lovable women. Much mingling with strangers, and 
wide intercourse with the social world in general, may, in 
due time, contribute largely to the production of a per- 
sonal bearing that will gracefully bafne intrusion. But in 
the perfect lady an elegant awe of manner is apparently 
the natural offspring of some original impulse. 

It has been said : — " People who, from their birth up- 
wards, have been accustomed to deference, acquire a 
manner which takes that deference for granted ; — an 
attitude from which the element of assertion is elimina- 
ted." In the lady this graciousness of attitude is a some- 
thing more than a mere conquest of habit. Whatever it 
may be, we easily profess to it a submissive loyalty that 
costs us no sacrifice of self-respect ; and we rise from 
bowing in homage to its empire over us, never belittled, 
but rather exalted. It affects us not unlike our praise of 
a good action. We seem to borrow a perfume from its 
loveliness, and to acquire a grace from our very act, 
when we accord it the frank recognition we feel it deserves. 

There is much in this deportment of the lady that 
defies definition and almost escapes description. Has 
some patent of nobility been granted by Nature to her 
favorites ; — a royal franchise, by which their " art and 
mystery " is protected from infringement by those who 



I O R UMINA TIONS. 

are not to the manner born ? Look even at her gait, as 
she moves to approach or walk away from you. Who 
wonders that the Roman poet, in his portraiture of the 
goddesses of his mythology, made their very step, when 
walking upon this earth, a trick of divinity, likely to 
betray them through any disguise ? Every one recalls 
with pleasure his school-boy delight in reading that, when 
^Eneas met his mother, Venus, masquerading in the 
woods as a huntress, her very manner of walking settled 
his doubts of her identity : — 

Et vera incessu patuit Dea. 

" Let us, with caution, " said the Father of our country, 
" indulge the supposition that morality can be maintained 
without religion/' Is Christian piety then a necessary 
attribute of the lady ? How can it be otherwise ? How 
else can woman have that reverence for things high and 
holy, seen and unseen, here and hereafter, without which 
no human being can long continue to be (except perhaps 
by conscious, obvious, and painful effort of extraordinary 
intellect) in true and harmonious relations with the best 
social world as it now is ? A profound reverence for a 
personal God, a steadfast faith in Gospel revelation, a 
buoyant hope coupled with a wholesome fear, centred in 
a future spiritual life and its supernatural promises, are 
still the primal bases upon which all our common civili- 
zation rests. The character we are striving to depict is 
the fondling of that civilization. 

Without faith, even in the leading religious dogmas 
prevailing around her, woman is somewhat of an anomaly. 



CONCERNING WOMEN. II 

Without religion, she is, as it were, morally unsexed. By 
her nature specially imaginative and emotional, she is 
properly not rationalistic. To be out of harmony with 
the moral opinion of her neighbors and contemporaries, 
to be socially anarchical, unfits her for developing some 
of her most amiable qualities. As a motive to action, 
impulse is naturally as powerful with a woman as reason 
is with a man. Indeed a woman, by the susceptibility of 
her temper, and the very infirmity of some of her love- 
liest traits, is always liable to be dominated by a reckless 
will. To say the least, this proverbial force, if unchecked, 
may let loose her speech, or direct her conduct, to her 
serious detriment. Without vital and demonstrable piety, 
as the anchor of her soul, to stay her impulsive conduct, 
she may, in a storm of passion, slip her cable, and be 
dashed to pieces amid breakers. Perhaps this obvious 
remark is true of most of our race ; yet it is not to be 
overlooked when considering the essential rudiments of 
the ideal lady. 

I once asked a paragon of her sex, what most dis- 
tinguished the lady from other varieties of womankind ? 
Her answer was : — " There is a subtile, indefinable air of 
refinement about a true lady which is never mistaken by 
anybody. Be she handsome or homely this inherent 
quality silently asserts itself, and makes its presence 
known to people of all classes, as surely as the Roman 
lictor, with his bundle of rods, made known to all he 
approached, that the authority of a Caesar was there. It 
is an emanation of power that exerts its mysterious in- 
fluence without any objective intent, or conscious will of 
its possessor. Beauty will enhance this power ; but the 



12 R UMINA TIONS. 

look and features will bear, its unmistakable impress, re- 
gardless of their homeliness. ,, 

In her general intercourse with her own sex, we shall 
probably find the surest test of her real nobility of 
character. Rarely, if ever, does she make enemies 
among women. In the language of a lady, whose thought 
has more than once guided the hand attempting this 
etching : — " Neither arrogance nor servility will be noted 
in her demeanor ; her self-assertion will be calm and 
inoffensive, but effectual ; her apparent deference to 
others will be modest, but not obsequious; — nor will it ever 
be attributed to servility. She will recognize the claims 
of whomsoever may be superior or inferior, giving each 
her just due with a graceful and inoffensive tact. ,, She 
will have pride without haughtiness or ostentation, and 
self-love without vanity or self-conceit. 

In all her dealings with others, her ways are somehow 
so curiously adapted to each person, that she puts them 
at once in harmonious relations with herself. The 
subject opens widely when one attempts to exemplify 
this varying air of apparent self-abnegation, yet uncon- 
scious self-assertion or impression of individuality — so 
tempered and disguised as to soothe, and never to 
irritate, the personality of another. It has often tempted 
poet, essayist, and artist into striving to portray or illus- 
trate these evanescent characteristics. What a charming 
cento might be made, if one would gather their various 
representations of woman's multiform attitudes, as 
daughter, sister, friend, lover, wife, or mother— keeping 
in sole view her pure ladyhood, and its peculiar manifes- 
tations, What a book it might be ; an encyclopedia of 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 1 3 

beauty, grace, love, truth, charity, piety in its social sense, 
and indeed of all kindred womanly virtues. 

Is the lady a modern creation ? Is she an evolution of 
our Christian idea of social womanhood ? Doubtless the 
family intercourse of the women of the great cities of the 
early periods of the world (among the men and women 
of cultivation, refinement, political power, social authority, 
or public office) developed many traits of manner, many 
ways of thinking and acting in respect to the minor 
morals of their day, that neither history, literature, nor the 
arts have wholly preserved. Yet, with what light we 
have for judging — although giving due credit to woman 
in the pagan ages for possessing all the more robust 
virtues of her sex, and for many of those graces of 
manner and refinements of social sympathy which are 
by some deemed inseparable from her nature when un- 
perverted by bad example or imperious necessity — one 
well may be incredulous of her claim to fill out the 
exacting ideal of the lady of our day. With all her 
accredited tendencies towards moral perfection, is it 
likely she rose above the level of the social exigencies 
and ideas of her time ? When religious rites demanded 
human sacrifices, and even priestesses administered at 
the bloody altars, where was the tender grace that in- 
spires our ideal lady ? When the torture of savage beasts 
in the public arena, to say nothing of the open murder of 
their innocent human victims, and the spectacle of 
gladiators — " butchered to make a Roman holiday " — 
amused the idle hours of the women of the highest 
rank, one cannot believe easily, we would be very proud 
of the sensibility, delicacy, or even refinement of such 



14 £ UM2NA TIONS. 

mothers or daughters — however fully they may have 
satisfied the notions of their own day. 

We well may ask, if their ideal of perfect womanhood 
was as exacting as our own. Did the gentle dignity, the 
softness of manner, the graceful condescension or absence 
of self-assertion, the clear consciousness of unasserted 
personal worth — never faltering or suffering anxiety lest 
it be not duly respected — the kindness of heart, the love 
of humanity, the wide charity, the sweet benevolence, the 
zeal for good works, the unswerving faith in the justice, 
mercy, and love of a Divine Father — did such blended 
traits of our ideal lady find full development among the 
most perfected women of antiquity ? 

Of course it is questionable whether we know enough of 
the more intimate social life of such remote times, to answer 
these questions satisfactorily. To most of our people, 
however, the lady is regarded as a creature of the Chris- 
tian era. She represents, in the popular heart, a sort of 
embodiment of that idea of the exaltation of womanhood 
which seems to find its sublimated sanction in an image 
of the Holy Virgin-Mother. She is enthroned upon 
spiritual heights to which a barbaric or pagan conception 
of womanly perfection does not appear to have attained ; 
— except possibly in the visions of the devotees of some 
priestly office, far removed from the common cares and 
concerns of mankind. Moreover she is believed to be now 
a practical person ; — one of the specific factors of our 
modern civilization, a power in the republic of letters 
or arts, capable of a professional or business career, 
and a vital force in all the ordinary affairs of our social 
daily life. 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 1$ 

What is the secret of that charm of manner, which is 
so persuasive, so compelling, so irresistible ? What gives 
her that sovereign deportment which seems to radiate 
light and warmth from her presence — so easy to recog- 
nize, so hard to describe, so tempting to imitate, yet so 
nearly impossible to counterfeit ? What is the seed-bud 
of this growth — if it be a growth ? Is there some primal 
essence of this finished development, some element, that 
dominates all the rest, and without which the other ma- 
terials of the composition would be vainly brought 
together ? The enigma is not easy of solution. One can 
hope only to put forward some admiring guess, for un- 
ravelling the web of this mystery. 

Perhaps it is a sort of unconscious personal equable- 
ness ; — the exquisite balance of a character, giving 
assurance of a well-poised physical, moral, and spiritual 
nature. As among men, we find a philosopher when 
we encounter one in whom equanimity always prevails, 
so of the lady in her ideal perfection, can we be sure 
of our model, unless in her there be this unwavering 
equability ? 

Ladyhood, confessedly, is not wholly a matter of tem- 
perament, nor a result of mere outward circumstances. 
There must be some other qualities, indicating a peculiar 
personality. One may expect to find, in her profound 
self-respect, something that never wavers, nor tolerates 
any attempt to tarnish or slight it. So far as self-asser- 
tion may be necessary for its maintenance, the lady will 
quietly but firmly, perhaps unconsciously yet unmistak- 
ably, always impress you with the predominance of this 
cardinal idea. 



1 6 £ UMINA T/OATS. 

Another distinguishing trait of the ideal lady, which 
certainly entitles her to be esteemed a representative of 
the noblest order of womanhood (as I am instructed by 
one in whom the virtues of ladyhood shine with marked 
brilliancy) will be her truthfulness. "Truth," says she, 
u tempered with firmness, justice, mercy, and good com- 
mon-sense — cardinal virtues of mind and heart — must 
be the keystone of the arch, without which the graceful 
fabric is but a fraud, dangerously deceptive, as a mirage 
that a breath may sweep away. If there be real truthful- 
ness in the heart, firmness will be its unconscious compan- 
ion ; — but mercy no less than courage should be ever at 
hand to guide its expression. It is not intended here to 
portray a complacent simpleton, who would consider it 
her duty to tell all she may fortuitously know of others ; 
but an intelligent woman, unwilling to wound unneces- 
sarily the feelings of the humblest person, guided by high 
principles, illumined by a sense of honor, and respecting 
the rights of herself, as well as those of all with whom 
she may be brought in contact. Truth is the impenetra- 
ble shield and armor of the lady, having something divine 
in their composition, like those given to ^Eneas. In the 
conflicts of social life, it will guard her from the vice of 
retailing gossip ; while it will make her the champion, 
either silent or outspoken but always formidable, of those 
who, unheard and unheeding, may suffer from the insidi- 
ous assaults of the sappers and miners of the army corps 
of slanderers. 

If we draw aside for a moment the veil of serene yet 
blithesome manner, that time, training, and custom have 
thrown around our subject, and look once more into the 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 1J 

deeper wells of her nature, we shall see a brilliant point 
of light, floating in clear space, as one may see a planet 
mirrored in a telescope. Call it rectitude. She is upright 
in all things from the core of her heart to her finger-tips. 
She never does wrong consciously, during her whole life. 
She never tampers with her inbred sense of right. She 
never puts her conscience to the test of mere reason — 
much less of convenience. She never sets up her will 
against the common religious or moral sentiment of the 
day. She is conventional and modal, not so much by 
calculation as by intuition. Nor can she ever be abashed, 
or do anything of which she may feel ashamed. Indeed 
she is wholly unconscious of personal error in the sight 
of man, in any respect. And while neither arrogant nor 
phar&saical, it has never occurred to her august mind, 
that she could wittingly neglect a duty, trespass upon the 
rights of a fellow-being, or even violate a rule of social 
propriety. As she was born and grew, as she was bred 
and taught, there arose and developed in her mind and 
heart this exquisite moral sense ;— a clear idea of some- 
thing more far-reaching, higher and broader, than any 
mere rule of right and wrong, as measured by the arti- 
ficial standard of a Puritan conscience — a notion of some 
inexorable law of her individual and social being touching 
the fitness of things, natural and artificial, human and 
divine, material and spiritual, moral and religious, that 
has always been her unbroken support. To such ideas 
she has been constantly true ;— never, even in thought or 
fancy, swerving to either side of the clear and straight 
pathway before her. She mutely obeys a law of recti- 
tude as inexorable as gravitation. 



1 8 RUMINATIONS. 

With all her opulence of possibilities, yet she has limi- 
tations. They are positive and exacting. Although she 
does many things as matters of course, for which she 
could give no satisfactory reason to the uninitiated, never- 
theless there are a vast number of social acts women in 
general may do lawfully sometimes, which she cannot 
even think of as possible for herself. Noblesse oblige. 
However she does not appear to be under constraint, a 
slave of custom, or even excessively fastidious. 

She is indeed one of those fortunate persons, to whose 
placid moral and intellectual vision, as well as serene 
temper, none of the things of this world appear to be out 
of joint. Her gracious optimism might rank as a social 
virtue. Although full of sympathy, affection, and melting 
charity, yet with a conservative eye she sees broadly all 
things in harmonious proportions, however obscure or 
conflicting may be their immediate relations. To her 
understanding, " Order is Heaven's first law." With this 
key she unlocks the secrets of God's providence, and 
reconciles many apparent inequalities that meet the eye 
in this visible world. Hence her mind is always poised 
at its proper position, seldom elated beyond the graceful 
dignity of a sweet composure, or depressed below its 
proper equipoise. She is never puffed up with super- 
cilious pride or self-conceit ; neither can the assertion of 
superiority in another humiliate her. Standing upon her 
own pedestal, with envy and jealousy beneath her feet, 
invidious rivalry slinks away abashed by her exquisite 
dignity of bearing, her sweetness of temper, her calm 
suavity, her sunny cheerfulness, her cordial affability, her 
radiant and artless grace. 



CONCERNING WOMEN. I g 

One peculiarity of some American women may perhaps 
be considered an ingredient of the character of our ideal 
lady. Possibly it is a native root of qualities distinguish- 
ing her from her sisters among other national types. It 
consists in an apparent unconsciousness, or ignoring, of 
any claim on the part of any other woman — by rank, 
birth, wealth, beauty, wit, genius, accomplishment, fame, 
or other consideration — to be reckoned her natural 
superior, in social esteem or outward recognition. She 
brooks no such superiors. She knows no class above 
her own, and no person entitled to take social precedence 
of herself by right. She carries this insensibly in her 
manner : but she wears it gracefully as the trees do their 
foliage, or the flowers their blossoms ; for it is a part of 
her nature, and not the result of either thought, effort, or 
policy of any kind. It is as elemental with her as for 
a fish to swim, or a bird to fly. Nor is she ever thrown 
off her balance in this respect, or forgetful of what she 
considers her rightful inheritance — not bought, but 
inherent. Perhaps this trait may explain some social 
phenomena that occasionally amaze a foreign visitor. 

In the anarchical struggle of social conditions among 
the women of our large cities, the ideal equipoise we have 
mentioned may be severely tested, and practically does 
not always withstand the strain put upon it. I once 
knew a typical woman of lady-like refinement, well-born 
and bred, of whom it might be said the contact of our 
mingled variety of social phenomena was too much for 
her imperial spirit to bear. She had rather a limited love 
of humanity in the concrete. For the sake of protection 
against rude invasion of her personality she occasionally 



20 £ VM1NA TI6NS. 

felt compelled to substitute tact or policy in lieu of her 
natural grace and simplicity of heart. She sacrificed 
some of her frankness to a fastidious decorum. In the 
bosom of her family, and in her own social stratum, she 
was natural and almost angelic. At other places, and 
especially in mixed society, to the observation of the few 
who knew her intimately, she appeared at times to be, as 
it were, upon stilts, and behind a mask — like some 
tragedy queen in a Greek play. However she could fill 
her role with success ; — looking to the common eye so 
simple, easy, graceful, and buoyant, that people generally 
believed her to be the unconsciously radiant creature she 
appeared to them, while they little guessed the dreary 
wearisomeness sometimes in her heart. 

Is our ideal American lady so born, or only fashioned 
by human hands ? Is she purely the child of nature — or 
a creature of society ? There is still among us a strong, 
perhaps increasing, belief in the instinct of blood ; — 
however much we may allow for mere breeding or 
social education, and despite the dogmas of our political 
creed. 

Whether the human race descended from a single pair ; 
or whether there were originally superior and inferior 
races ; or whether a celestial strain, in the far ages, 
mingled with human lineage, as mythologies feign ; or 
whether the law of evolution, tending towards perfection, 
among higher capabilities of the race, holds and trans- 
mits wfrat excellence it finds ; to many it seems to be an 
absurdity in analogy to recognize a law of heredity in 
beasts, yet to deny it among mankind. The whole race, 
at all times, in fact, obviously has paid deference and even 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 21 

homage to this law ; — however much in theory nowa- 
days it may be denied or repudiated by religious creeds 
or political manifestoes. 

Another kindred suggestion. We see throughout all 
animated nature the production of new types approxi- 
mating to perfection, and also new varieties of the higher 
types. Again we find even such types becoming fresh 
rivals in the struggle to attain a remoter ideal. Can we 
assume that the loveliest work of nature is shut out from 
the glory of this otherwise universal law ? Shall dog- 
matic theology, or political philosophy, in their claim for 
human equality prevail against common experience in 
respect to a rule demonstrated even in the vegetable 
world ? May we not premise that, in the course of time, 
nobler moral features of men and women are evolved? 
When, by heroic or gentle life and conduct, one has 
proved a divine right to be the stirps or gens of a new 
variety of the human family, shall we not recognize the 
apparent fact of transmissible nobleness ? May we not 
thus find the germ that grows, blossoms, and ripens into 
the ideal perfect lady ? It is one of nature's mysteries, 
that perhaps time alone more clearly can reveal to us, as 
our democratic society progresses ; or when we shall 
approach a golden age of social conduct, in which the 
better elements of human nature may maintain a wider 
predominance over the grosser, and the animal part of 
us be more subordinate to the spiritual. 

I know a woman who might well sit for a portrait of the 
figure I strive to paint ; whose opinion in the matter is 
really a revelation from her own nature, coupled with the 
judgment of an expert, "Ladyhood/* she tells me, "i§ 



22 R UMINA TIONS. , 

hereditary, generally speaking ; but there can be no doubt 
that a few generations of education and refinement will 
tone and modify the acerbities of even the most brutal 
natures. These, with a veneering of culture, may pass 
current in society as ladies, and possibly there may be 
ladies among them, but the probabilities are that the 
majority of them are gilded images only. Even in the 
savage state we may find the germ, or, so to speak, the 
timber or stone, out of which to carve the genuine 
figure. Among the Seminole Indians, it is said, were 
found natural ladies and gentlemen. The Marquis de 
Lafayette reported of this tribe of children of the forest, 
that in their manner they reminded him of the old 
nobility of France. With proper cultivation what might not 
have been found to be their latent possibilities ? Possibly, 
after many generations, the veneered people may evolve 
among their class a genuine lady. I believe, however, in 
original blood, yet am free to concede that of course its 
admixture with a grosser strain will, with the assistance 
of proper education, in process of time, ' breed out ' the 
common blood of the latter ; — but if the stock be not full- 
blooded, the offspring will surely, as the race progresses, 
occasionally ' breed back/ and here and there we shall 
see the most vulgar specimens among the families which 
pass current as Vere de Veres." 

Does our ideal lady grow old ? Is not the sweetness of 
her womanhood enveloped in an amber of apparently 
continuing youth ? Does buoyant sympathy with all that 
is humanly pure, good, and lovable flag with the pas- 
sage of time ? Never ceasing to love, and be loved by, 
her fellow-creatures ? she always brings hope, joy smiles, 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 23 

and brightness wherever she goes. Her youthful mien, 
her unvarying urbanity, her exquisitely elastic grace, and 
unspeakable fascination of demeanor, even the musical 
cadence of her speech, with her unaffected, modest assur- 
ance, whether in pose, or gesture, or in talking, listen- 
ing, laughing, or sympathizing, or in directing, leading, 
yielding, or following ; all of these appear to endure un- 
tarnished by the deteriorating breath of time. There is 
at the least an airy spirit of vernal loveliness always 
hovering about her, that charms, soothes, and inspires 
like Sappho's swallow : — 

Blithe angel of the perfume-breathing Spring. 

As in her intercourse with the world, judicious tact — 
born of plain common-sense, sincerity, and simplicity — 
sustains her in a true relation towards all others ; so in her 
dealing with even inanimate things, she seems to have an 
unfailing sense of propriety — strong and clear, but deli- 
cate and exquisite — that informs and controls her taste 
and judgment. In her dress she never leans to excess in 
form, color, or ornament ; nor is she coarse or plain where 
richness and variety are suitable. She well knows there 
is a use of ornament that suggests, if it do not express, 
refinement ; — seeming to tell only half its worth, and so 
is wholly subordinate to its wearer or possessor. There is 
another sort of display of the like accessories, that is 
often aggressive by its iridescent gauds, and whose in- 
harmonious variety disturbs the eye — or may even roil 
the temper of a neighbor. The taste of the lady of course 
is never at fault when choosing between them ; — or in 
rejecting the latter ? even if the former be out of her reach. 



24 R UMINA TIONS. 

In all her paraphernalia of wider signification, as in 
person and apparel, she has a dainty neatness — almost 
fastidiousness — that seems to exhale, from every object 
belonging to her, a sort of moral freshness ; — affecting 
our senses like the sight of early violets, whose fragrance 
is too distant, or confined, actually to reach us, yet 
which we seem to inhale, as it were, through the eyes, by 
some obscure sense. Amid the glare and homeliness of 
common things, and among a crowd of miscellaneous 
people, this peculiarly delicate aroma of a sacred individ- 
uality, this subdued aureole of womanly splendor, may 
sometimes appear not unlike an affectation of over-refine- 
ment. But in her own sphere, and with the belongings 
of her own special social condition about her — in her own 
home and among her own people — it surrounds her as 
her own appropriate element. However rarefied the at- 
mosphere may appear, to persons of coarser mold and 
homelier associations whose lungs cannot find support in 
its attenuated condition, certainly she floats in it with 
ever sustained wing. . 

Among the miscellaneous rout, in Chaucer's Canter- 
bury Tales, who made their famous pilgrimage from 
the " Tabard " in Southwark, will be remembered 
the Lady Prioresse Eglentine. If the poet meant 
to satirize her as ostentatiously fastidious, yet he paid 
an involuntary tribute to a minor phase of lady-like 
manners : — 

At mete was she wel y-taughte withalle ; 
She lette no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
Ne wette hire fingres in hire sauce depe. 
Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 2$ 

That no drope ne fell upon hire brest. 

In curtesie was sette ful moche hire lest. 

Hire over lippe wiped she so clene, 

That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene 

Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught. 

One word of another similar matter. There is still 
found in some circles, occasionally, an affectation of 
supersensitive delicacy, both physical and moral, which, 
being false is detestable and ridiculous, yet seems to 
borrow its suggestion from some of the finer traits of 
womankind. This simulation, however, is sure to run 
into absurd extravagance ; and to betray the absence of 
the coveted quality it slanders and travesties, by a rude 
imitation. The susceptibility to emotional shock, which 
is the natural condition of a highly organized tempera- 
ment, and is ingrained in the fibre of the real lady, is 
not easily feigned, so as to deceive the intelligent. That 
good health and sound nerves, united with common- 
sense notions of right and wrong, are not inconsistent with 
real refinement of physical or moral sensibility, is con- 
stantly apparent in the loveliest class of women. But a 
maudlin conscience, or a morbid affectation of childish 
fears, a weak resolution, a nerveless flaccidity, or a 
masquerade of general incompetence, only betray the 
unlovely counterfeit. 

It may not be idle to contrast some minor traits com- 
mon to the lady and her counterpart, the gentleman. 
Being correlatives, we can hardly conceive of the practi- 
cal existence of the one without the other. They are 
alike in some general characteristics, although varying 
even in these, as their natural organizations and circum- 



26 RUMINATIONS. 

stances differ — perhaps, however, as has been often said, 
more in degree than in kind. 

The idea of the gentleman seems to have originated as 
soon as there was evolved a man who could live plente- 
ously as a private citizen without the work of his own 
hands. Hence the vulgar notion of the gentleman being 
a man of idleness. Hardly any intelligent American, 
however, would describe a lady as being a woman who 
does not work. Such an one might figure as the light of 
a harem — a mere toy or plaything — but not as a "lady." 
Inclination to industry of some kind appears to have been 
so early implanted in the habitual nature of the normal 
American woman, that indolence seems associated, in the 
common mind, only with one who — perhaps by new for- 
tune — is somehow out of her true relations with the world 
in general. 

Possibly much of this distinction grows out of the fact 
that the occupation of women is largely the management of 
matters of detail ; — necessarily varied and endless. How- 
ever there may be something more than this. An indus- 
trious woman may carry about her, more impressively, that 
indefinable charm in which a lady moves, than does an 
idle one. In the latter there is a tendency of the physical 
nature to dominate, and sometimes perhaps even to ob- 
literate, some intellectual or spiritual feminine graces. 
Indeed, it seems almost as if to be a constant doer-of- 
good-works might be set down as one of the elemental 
characteristics of the fine personality we are striving to 
sketch. 

Surmising that the production of the lady is largely the 
evolution of heredity, in that respect, too, she, appears to 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 2/ 

differ somewhat from the gentleman. A man may spring 
from common ancestry and be bred among narrow social 
surroundings, yet at some period of his life easily attain 
the full rank of the popular idea of an American gentle- 
man. Possibly this result is in some degree owing to the 
fact that a man with even lately acquired social advan- 
tages — if he have fair intellect, with a strong tendency 
towards self-perfecting by refinement in all things — may 
continue, his life long, to learn and grow in this direction. 
A woman of the same class, with the like relative grade 
of intelligence and opportunities, usually ceases to pro- 
gress, either in such mental or external accomplishment, at 
a comparatively early age; — and to wear the scars of her 
struggle with the world more visibly. Moreover the 
necessities, as well as the opportunities, of self-education 
and self-discipline, both in mind and manners, seem rather 
to increase, with the growth of a man's mental stature 
and participation in the affairs of the world ; till time 
mellows, while practice smooths, that crudity and rugged- 
ness, which absence of early social amenities permitted to 
grow wild — unpruned and misdirected. With woman, 
however, if the material chance to be naturally somewhat 
coarse-grained, it does not appear generally to be capable 
of so fine a polish. Friction with the world more often 
betrays its natural imperfections and tends rather to 
exaggerate than to conceal them. We look often in vain, 
among such specimens of the sex, for that wonderful 
permeating delicacy and refinement, that subordination of 
self to others in all matters of interest, feeling, affection, 
and duty, and that complete recognition of the obliga- 
tions and limitations imposed upon natural impulse and 



28 Jc UMINA TIONS. 

personal will by the dominating grace, dignity, and honor 
of womanhood, without which we cannot make out the 
full lineaments of our ideal lady. 

As, according to common impression, the subtile ele- 
ments of the character of the perfect lady suggest an 
aromatic flavor of youth, however far the subject herself 
may be in fact advanced beyond her prime, and there 
always attends her, more or less, the sweetness of woman- 
hood with its glorious blossom ; so also it may be that the 
lady is more a character external — with something more 
of efflorescent air and seeming, as necessary qualities — 
than is her supposed counterpart, the gentleman. She 
should have for her immediate surroundings, as it were, 
light and color, contrast and background, to give her full 
effect. Like a jewel, however rare and beautiful in itself, 
she seems to need a setting to graduate her appearance 
into harmony with common persons, places, and things. 
The gentleman sometimes soars above the meanest cir- 
cumstances, and vindicates his touch of divinity, under 
the trying test of misfortune, suspicion, poverty, and even 
squalor, by a kind of heroic halo shining through the clouds 
that encompass him ; — perhaps as Ulysses appeared to 
Nausicaa. The lady on the contrary loses so much by the 
absence of her kindred accessories and proper surround- 
ings, that she may suffer, perhaps, even unconsciously, a 
temporary loss of dignity and power, when she is thus 
thrown out of her sphere, and the gracefulness of her 
outward equilibrium is unduly jostled. 

As the lady is in some of her external aspects appar- 
ently a more artificial being than the gentleman, she has 
many factitious merits the like of which with him may be 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 29 

deemed non-essentials, or even faults. Conspicuously 
among such minor things might be classed her intuitive 
acquaintance with minute matters of social propriety and 
form in polite intercourse. Unlike him she will not 
come to know when, where, how, or from whom she 
learned these mysteries. She has no recollection of the 
time when they were unknown to her. Indeed, this 
knowledge belongs to her inner consciousness ; and seems 
to pulsate, as it were, in the veins of her mind. 

The writer is not vain enough to suppose he has drawn 
the contour of this ideal portrait with sharp lines ; much 
less given the precise color, tone, or expression of its 
finer features, to general satisfaction. The matter is not 
fit for dogmatical opinion. The ramifications of its devel- 
opment, and the varieties of its appearance, are difficult to 
classify or to reduce to any single formula. Popular ideas 
differ essentially, as to the excellence of many apparently 
dissimilar types. People look at this subject from many 
different points of view : and even the fairest-minded are 
apt to be unconsciously swayed in judgment by some asso- 
ciation of ideas with special individuals, through love, 
friendship, gratitude, or some other like disturbing force. 

Neither should any woman suffer disparagement in her 
own eyes because she is unable to realize in her outward 
act all, or even the larger part, of what has been here 
suggested as the similitude of the ideal lady. However 
nearly in her own heart she may feel that she comes up 
to the highest standard, doubtless sometimes she will be 
painfully conscious of her failure to impress that convic- 
tion upon others. Few of us, in this brief life of vicissi- 
tudes and interruptions, develop our best possibilities. 



30 R UMINA TIONS. 

We are all — even the most fortunate and the strongest- 
willed — more or less the never-manumitted slaves of what 
is nowadays called our personal environment. Seldom 
are we permitted to choose what kind of figure we shall 
present to the world around us. How generally, in fact, 
are our worldly characters, and our outward semblances, 
carved out for us by other hands ; or made up, first, by 
the social mold in which our early life is cast, and after- 
wards, by tyrant custom, the attrition of stronger natures, 
and the use the world makes of us, during all of our 
journey to the goal where alone all are absolutely equal. 




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II. 



THIRD-LOVE. 




There 's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd. 

Antony and Cleopatra. 

IRST-LOVE is an expression, upon the lips 
of every one, to which most persons of adult 
age attach some specific meaning — however 
inadequate that may be. Second-love, among 
matured men and women, is likely to continue the subject 
of endless thought and discussion — especially with the 
widowed. Not a few of these class it among their most 
fortunate experiences. The life and character of man 
or woman — at an age when little is known or felt of the 
capabilities of the heart, and while the impediments to 
what may be expected or imagined seem to be few — differ 
so essentially from the life and character of the same 
persons at a later date — when through experience much 
is really known — that there is hardly room to doubt the 
frequent subsistence and absolute sincerity of a second 
passion of pure love. It comes after the first has exhaled 
in disappointment, or has lost the freshness of its memory 
through long irremediable separation, by death or other- 
wise. 

3i 



32 £ UMINA TIONS. 

But what shall be said of third-love ? After the heart 
has passed through a second matured married love — an 
honest, thorough, all-embracing, altruistic, self-absorbing 
love — does a third love ever come ? If so, shall it be 
ranked as a passion, an affection, a sentiment, or as a 
delusion ? Or is it simply an inexplicable fact, or phenom- 
enon, that defies analysis and baffles description ? He 
who avows such love perhaps ought to explain how its 
genuineness may be known, since it is so commonly chal- 
lenged by the world whenever it is seriously asserted. 

" O, sovereign power of Love ! " sang the gentle Keats. 
Is it an instinct, an impulse, an illusion, a magnetic sug- 
gestion, a subordination of will, an infatuation, or a mix- 
ture of some or all these — with or without something 
more ? Whatever it be, all will agree with the poet it is a 
"power." Love and passion when distinguishable are 
naturally, to some extent, the complements of each other. 
Yet it hardly can be questioned that the former may 
subsist without much of the latter. Passion alone may 
assume the form of love, with no quality worthy of its 
name. It may even foster some evanescent sentiment, 
yet through lack of endurance of essential traits be unde- 
serving to be called love. Where love is something more 
than the hey-day of the blood, it has its seed in the brain. 
It is also a special function of those who are still young — 
at least in all the tenderest feelings of the heart. It sur- 
vives as it is fed by hopes, expectations — nay even delu- 
sions. Whether first or second, it is usually the child of 
sudden and involuntary impulse. Jam satis. 

It is not proposed to discuss here this topic with scientific 
precision or logical accuracy. W T e treat it rather as one 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 33 

addressing a Court of Love, where the sympathy of the 
audience may be assumed and some individual experience 
or the imagination of the hearer may be relied upon to sup- 
ply whatever of illustration or detail shall be supposed to 
be omitted. 

First-love, then, as all the world knows, is the dawn of 
a sentiment, commonly although not necessarily, mingled 
with a latent something that is wholly new. It thrills, 
absorbs, dazzles, blinds yet illuminates. It purifies, ele- 
vates, and ennobles its subject, while it seems to transfig- 
ure its object. It comes usually, with an early morning's 
dewy freshness, at a time of life when internal experiences 
are few, when the feelings are spontaneous and unhack- 
neyed ; when the blood is warm, the fancy free, and the 
imagination easily excited ; when the judgment is crude, 
and the temper rash, if not foolhardy ; — when strange 
fancies are playing mad pranks in the brain, and the 
world appears crowded with things novel or wonderful, 
to be coveted and enjoyed. It embraces the whole cir- 
cumference of the heart, like a tight-fitting garment that 
cannot be shaken off at will. It asserts itself so power- 
fully, and shines through every disguise so vividly, it 
cannot easily be mistaken for anything else. Having 
taken possession of a vacant territory, it claims an 
absolute property by right divine both of discovery and 
primal occupation. It recognizes no superior here or 
hereafter. Defying ejectment it professes to limit its 
sway only by the incredible possibility of a death that 
shall be followed by annihilation of both body and soul. 

Second-love is usually a tamer creature than its earlier 
brother. Although fierce enough, in some aspects, it is 



34 * UMINA TIONS. 

commonly less spiritual, and plays less with the fancy. It 
is more robust and physical — although having a powerful 
ally in the imagination. It follows, with unequal steps, 
glowing in purple light, yet far behind its predecessor. It 
comes after the heart has been taught some hard and per- 
haps bitter lessons. Some of the hallucinations of youth 
have been swept away, and the understanding has begun 
to put its conclusions upon a more matter-of-fact, if not 
a more truthful basis. Some of the vivid fascinations, 
that have had their time of dazzling and misleading the 
temper, have vanished, leaving behind a somewhat lumi- 
nous but formless vapor ; — which, however obscure it 
may be as a medium, usually does not transform much 
the object seen through it. If the red and yellow light 
of these fading illuminations still linger, as around a set- 
ting sun, and sometimes settle in shape of an aureole 
about the head of some newly discovered type of sweetest 
womanhood, it does not commonly — as when first-love 
was master of the revels — wrap the whole body of the 
loved object in a shining garment, or give it such an 
ethereal buoyancy as to make it appear incapable of 
touching the earth with feet of clay. 

While second-love impresses the fancy more lightly 
(having little or no puling sentimentality about it), 
usually its sincere sentiment is grounded in respect and 
esteem, as well as in warm affection. It is a suggestion 
of judgment almost as much as of emotion. What it 
lacks of such nourishment as first-love draws from 
fancy, intense sensibility, novelty, or pure illusion, 
it may often find in a full-blossomed passionate 
emotion. It holds possession of the heart with the 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 35 

strong arm of a conqueror, who has driven out another 
occupant. If wise, it will not forget the fact that its right 
rests upon usurpation. Nor ought it ever to be quite off 
its guard, or wholly without a lurking subconsciousness 
that it stands upon the defensive. However, in a certain 
sense, it may be deeper and more absorbing, capable of 
higher effort and greater self-sacrifice, than first-love. 
With wider-opened eyes, greater dignity and profounder 
self-respect, it fully appreciates what it has found. 
Besides it knows how much its treasure has cost, and 
the full worth of what itself gives, or hazards, to prove 
its own honesty and sincerity or to gain and keep that 
of its object. 

But ah, third-love ! We come back to this enigma. 
What shall be told of it ? Shall we begin with a challenge 
of sincerity in its pretensions ? After the fire has twice 
swept over the ground, apparently consuming every green 
or living thing, what can we expect will germinate and 
grow upon the barren stubble field ? Is the soil exhausted 
after its double fructification and second harvest ? Can 
anything but strange weeds be looked for to spring up 
there ; weeds, coarse and of ill savor, however gaudy in 
color ? Is there any aliment for pure and simple love, 
besides the ashes of a passion — warm, perhaps even glow- 
ing with its wonted fires, not, however, from fresh fuel or 
blazing embers, but — alas, ashes ; dust and ashes ? Shall 
we say requiescat — stir it not ? 

By the expression third-love, no reference is intended 
to a merely third in number of fancied objects, but 
rather to that maligned semblance of love itself, which is 
tertiary in its stratification, and comes, if it come at all, 



36 R UMINA TIONS. 

after the grand climateric in man or woman. Shall this 
be called love ? Must we say, with La Bruyere, " the 
most unnatural thing in the world is an old man in 
love " ? 

There are, indeed, some men, with so little imagination, 
so deficient by nature in the depth, singleness, refinement, 
sentiment, romance, or, if one may here use the expres- 
sion, poetry of love — or else so large, catholic, and com- 
monplace in their affection for women — that in their 
breadth, and perhaps consequent shallowness, of sexual 
sympathy, they are always open to the blandishments of 
the entire sex. With such persons third-love — so far as 
they ever have been, or are, capable of any love what- 
ever — may perhaps pass merely as part of an endless 
series. 

It will not be suggested here that the fidelity or honor 
of this special class is subject to question. Simply their 
scheme of life appears to be to take one wife at a time, 
and always to hold themselves in readiness for another ; 
to be looked for not very long after the one has gone. 
It is not fair to say they prized the last one less ;- — but 
their love (according to the sense of that word in their 
vocabulary) for the whole sex seems to themselves more 
than they could give to any one woman, by whatever tie 
she may be possessed ! 

With reference to such omnivorous natures, perhaps a 
little light might be thrown by classifying their first-, 
second-, and third-love, or even more, as the ordinary 
accompaniment of three or more separate stages of 
existence, but without much difference between them. 
With such malleable persons, however adaptable, for- 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 37 

mality is still the governing factor of their lives, and 
conventionality, if not inborn, is at least second nature. 

To the searching analytical eye there would be visible 
a cool formalism, of a mild type, in their first-love, and a 
good deal of it, perhaps almost cruel, in their second-love. 
In the third, or subsequent stages, this anti-psychic 
characteristic would be so plain that the passional or 
even sentimental observer would scarcely venture to 
class the feeling as high as mere friendship. He would 
rather incline to call it a convenient association with just 
holy matrimony enough to cover it respectably. 

Of course in these cases one may say, " matrimony M 
without hesitation. For in the history of the lives of 
such modal characters marriage is apparently the only 
natural state. If not always existing in fact, it is prob- 
ably always at hand. Indeed with them, fortunately 
for social well-being, the proprieties of conventionalism 
are thus strictly observed. Possibly however this may 
be sometimes not so much through reverence for the 
sanctity of womanhood as because they know instinctively, 
or have learned by shrewd calculation, that the most 
profitable moral investments in this life always lie inside 
the lines, where adventure parts company with prudence. 
With this class we may leave the safe-keeping of this 
species of third-love ; — perhaps a conscious delusion. At 
the least it involves no danger to their moral constitutions, 
or risk of subjecting their fortunes to the caprices of 
senile infatuation. 

Nevertheless, there appears to be occasionally among 
those who have preserved their vigor of body, mind, and 
heart, far beyond middle life, a capability, and even a 



38 RUMINATION'S. 

yearning, for the strongest personal, sexual or psychic 
attachment. What less can be said of the conquered 
passion of Goethe, in his seventy-third year, for the 
charming Ulrica von Levizon ? 

Sometimes in men or women — with whom the finer 
qualities of the soul either never existed, or, from inherent 
infirmity, have perished early or have been overwhelmed 
by some lava-like irruption of disordered nature — this 
yearning may take on a form so physical that it were 
better relegated to the domain of medical science. Such 
cases are however abnormal and altogether exceptional. 

Normally, while there may not be a passional emotion 
that thrills the blood like the untried impulses of youth, 
yet there may be between man and woman, quite late 
in years, a strong sentiment of affection resting more in 
the mind than in the heart, yet warmer, finer, and closer 
than is likely to exist at this time of life between persons 
of the same sex. 

Shall one provoke the derisive laughter of those who 
have not yet advanced to the age when " the hey-day in 
the blood is tame," by calling this sentiment love ? If so, 
perhaps it were better for them to treat it gently, and let 
it pass without considering it too curiously. Possibly, 
too, in some future age when men and women are 
universally charitable in guessing each other's motives, 
such an attachment may be popularly recognized as an 
aftermath, sprung from some of the richest soil of our 
common human nature. 

What a puzzle, also, is that apparently pure love of a 
young woman which is sometimes ungrudgingly bestowed 
upon an old man ! What does it find to feed upon if 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 39 

there be not reciprocity ? To endeavor to solve this 
riddle one must not forget that love is an eccentric 
creature, with a diversity of shapes as well as of phases. 
The most superficial reference to the civilizations of 
different periods of history reminds us, by their mythology 
and poetry, of the almost countless variety of love's 
metamorphoses. 

Although mere passion be one, and perhaps generally 
is the primordial, rootlet of human love, nevertheless, by 
the vicissitudes, growth, expansion, and fastidious refine- 
ment of social circumstances it has diverged into many 
branches widely different from this simple sprout of mere 
impulsive instinct. It is not indeed by any means neces- 
sary nowadays to sincere affection of the closest charac- 
ter between the young and the old, that there should burn 
the intense flame that consumed a Romeo or a Juliet. 
Doubtless some degree of it, at some time of life, glows 
in every healthy bosom. But the duration of such special 
exaltation of the blood long beyond early prime is the 
good or evil fortune of only a few. 

When however the first fever has run its course and 
ended in nothing ; — when a young woman has, by a 
course of flirtations, and a succession of sweethearts, 
learned something of the shallowness, pettiness, and sel- 
fishness of her male companions — if she be of a moderate 
temperament, blessed with a liberal stock of cool common- 
sense, coupled with a high valuation of her own worth ; 
— she will sometimes grow weary of impertinent curiosity, 
and tyrannical exactions, from the young men she has 
taken perhaps too thoughtlessly into her confidence. 
She may covet a freedom in thought and action which 



40 & UMltfA TIONS. 

the genuine simplicity of her nature assures her is both 
innocent and rightfully her due. She may find that those 
men of her own age, toward whom her heart inclines 
tenderly and perhaps fondly, expect too much, and are 
willing to yield too little. 

Whenever such an one has reached this stage, abnormal 
though it be, she may be ripe for the sincere adulation 
of an elderly man. She may be sought by some one who 
(having passed through second-love) will give fair play to 
the instinctive delicacy of her maidenly reserve, who will 
not press too closely upon her innermost confidence, but 
who will be willing to recognize and wait upon her indi- 
viduality at a respectful distance. In him she may believe 
she has discovered an admiring lover who readily gives 
much and asks very little ; — one who values every mark 
of affinity from her, yet does not presume upon her favor 
to endeavor to make her his bond-slave forever. In such 
an association she may find a marriage that satisfies her 
heart, while her judgment approves. 

Again, it is a common experience that nothing is more 
grateful to the heart of many a man who has lived so 
long as to be wearied with striving to cherish the broken 
promises of life — and who begins to lose his hold upon 
hope for their renewal here — than the sincere affection of 
a young woman whose anticipations are still vivid and 
whose heart is buoyant with expectations of continuing 
happiness. 

Of course these words are written only of such attach- 
ments as are mutually pure and honest, without the taint 
of close-calculating individual selfishness on either side. 
Where this latter element controls the problem, the sub- 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 41 

ject may better be turned over to students of morbid 
moral anatomy — or perhaps to the police courts. And 
the sensational novelists of the day can take care of those 
in this category, if any, who are beyond such special 
jurisdictions. 

The mark here aimed at is higher and in spite of the 
skepticism prevalent concerning the possibility of third- 
love, the claim sometimes urged for the propriety of such 
relations — when, in good faith, assumed in the face of a 
carping world — may be found to be rather complimentary 
than otherwise to the possibilities of social life under our 
modern civilization. 

So much for third-love. The subject is somewhat 
ticklish, and perhaps it would be rash to attempt to dilate 
more fully, or to assume to speak from the chair upon 
such a topic. 




III. 



FRIENDSHIPS BETWEEN MEN AND WOMEN. 



There 's flattery in friendship. 



Henry IV. 




AN" honest friendship, pure and simple, subsist 
between man and woman ? Perhaps the 
majority of both sexes candidly aver it to be 
impossible. Many women scoff at the no- 
tion of what is sometimes called platonic affection ; and 
most men count it a fraud or a dangerous delusion. 
With all such persons at the least, it may be said to be 
impracticable. Their own involuntary self-judgment 
could not be wisely or even safely gainsaid. Yet it 
would be too harsh to condemn all those who avow their 
earnest faith in such a relationship, as being either hypo- 
crites or fanatics. The sweet romantic story of Goethe's 
"friend/' Charlotte, Frau von Stein, alone appeals to the 
consciousness of too many noble-minded men and women 
to vilify human nature to such a degree of humiliation. 

Doubtless this relation is exceptional ; and nearly 
always — when counted as the sole foundation for an inti- 

42 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 43 

macy between man and woman — is regarded, to say the 
least, as equivocal. Being liable to both misconstruction 
by others, as well as possible mischief to the parties con- 
cerned, its open expression is usually avoided by prudent 
people, who are conventional of necessity, or have a large 
practical stake in an unquestioning good opinion of their 
social congeners. Generally speaking, probably it is 
something a little beyond the range of feeling of most 
merely matter-of-fact people. 

Indeed, whether in its mainspring it be fanciful or not, 
at least some degree of reciprocal idealization seems to 
be a necessary ingredient in the make-up of such an asso- 
ciation. And one must look among those who, either by 
excess of imagination and correlative sensibility, or from 
a deficiency in the temperature of the blood, or both, are 
a little outside the normal standard of human nature, for 
such attachments in their full honesty, simplicity, and 
purity. Certainly in the song of the poet, in the talk of 
the artist, and in the life of the ideal philosopher, do we 
find the heartiest, and apparently the sincerest, recogni- 
tion of such friendships. But even among the half-savage 
" Toueregs of the Sahara," we find a maxim : — " Friends 
of different sexes are for the eyes and the heart and not 
for the bed only as among the Arabs." 

There are usually at least two impediments lying in the 
way of a man desiring to maintain intimate friendships 
with women. First, they are inclined, if they like a man 
well, soon to like him too much for the peace of mind of 
either party ; and next, women cannot look ordinarily 
with much complacency upon a male friend's likings for 
other women. They are prone to fancy, in such cases, 



44 X UMINA TIONS. 

they receive less than their proper share of his attention 
or regard. For, apparently, despite the dictates of their 
own good sense, they seem constantly disposed, by their 
vivifying breath, to fan the sedate embers of friendship 
into the glowing coals of love. Just as persistently, as in 
case of love itself, are they beset by the irritation of 
jealousy, whenever favor is shown by their friend to 
another woman. They dislike instinctively anything 
resembling a partnership or community of property 
where they are to have, or to be the subject of, or to 
furnish even the fiction of, possession. Indeed their 
inclination, from pure impulse or sweet will, is to be 
Turk-like monopolists in all cases of occupation of the 
domains of the heart ; — wanting the whole or none. 

Lord Byron can hardly be suspected of more want of 
experience, touching this phase of human capability, than 
most men. Moreover he was likely to speak as frankly 
as any one about it. His diagnosis of the abnormity is 
at least curious. In his thirty-fourth year, writing to 

Lady , he says : — " I have always laid it down as a 

maxim, and found it justified by experience, that a man 
and a woman make far better friendships than can exist 
between two of the same sex ; but with this condition, 
that they never have made, or are to make, love with each 
other. Lovers may be, and indeed generally are, enemies ; 
but they never can be friends — because there must always 
be a spice of jealousy and a spice of self in all their spec- 
ulations. Indeed I rather look upon love altogether as a 
sort of hostile transaction ; very necessary to make or 
break matches, and to keep the world going, but by no 
means a sinecure to the parties concerned. ,, 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 45 

A discriminating French writer pleads for a dual de- 
mand by male friendship. He would lay both sexes under 
contribution to satisfy a full-made man's necessity in this 
direction, saying : — II faudrait done peut-etre desirer un 
homme pour ami dans les grandes occasions, mais pour le 
bonheur de tous les jours, il faut desirer l'amitie d'une 
femme. 

Whether the man or the woman, or both, be married or 
single, such an intimate association between them, out- 
side the lines of consanguinity or affinity — unless in con- 
templation of marriage — being beyond the ordinary groove 
of social routine, generally, as already suggested, is looked 
upon askance. If tolerated at all, by the self-constituted 
duennas of a social circle, it is accounted something to be 
at the least suspected and watched ; — even if it escape 
" calumnious strokes/' 

Unfortunately, too, this bare suspicion — suggesting mis- 
chief and breeding secrecy or mystery — is a most effectual 
prescription for generating the very evil deprecated. 
As both men and women commonly, though unconciously, 
judge their neighbors by themselves, it is hard, and almost 
impossible for any one to suppose other human beings 
to possess moral qualities or fine attributes beyond the 
reach or capacity of his own individual nature. There 
are some things in human nature we hardly ever can 
be taught, by external observation, to comprehend. 
Our self-love is constantly impelling us to interpret 
all facts germane to the matter in a manner adverse 
to any theory which tends to exalt the intrinsic nature 
of another above the loftiest possibilities of our own. 
In this wise the mass of mankind are not at all indis- 



46 i? UMINA T10NS. 

posed to deride the notion of platonic love as an unreal 
mockery. 

Although with so many a real friendship is usually 
predicable only of an intimacy between persons of the 
same sex, nevertheless there are undoubtedly men and 
women who appear, to themselves if not to the world, 
never to reach the full measure of their moral natures, 
except through confidential association with persons of 
opposite sex. Certainly there are not a few men, of a 
special temperament, to whom woman in general seems 
to be a sort of fascination, and with whom the assurance 
of one or more intimate friends among women is neces- 
sary to maintain, as it were, a psychological balance of 
character. The corresponding condition is said to be 
true of some women. In such cases passional love 
ought by no means to be called an element essentially 
necessary to this relation. 

The experienced Bulwer in his elaborate, but unfin- 
ished posthumous, masterpiece The Parisians, speaks 
earnestly of — " one of those cordial friendships, which, 
perfectly free alike from polite flirtation and platonic 
attachment, do sometimes spring up between persons of 
opposite sexes, without the slightest danger of changing 
its honest character into morbid sentimentality, or unlaw- 
ful passion." Perhaps, among those thus spoken of, such 
unhallowed love, sometimes, ineffectually may come and 
go, yet leave an honorable friendship undisturbed. 

Not only, however, is this capability for an unmixed 
friendship between man and woman far from being uni- 
versal, but a claim for it is often asserted without its 
having any real existence ;— being a delusion that deceives 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 47 

only those who blindly fancy it to be in their possession. 
Hence spiritual affection is so often a sneering by-word 
of the incredulous. Nevertheless that it has a real subsist- 
ence in many cases, and has had from the beginning of 
the world, is the unshaken conviction of some of the 
purest and best specimens of our frail humanity. So it 
will doubtl ess endure forever ; inconceivable as it may be, 
and hard for definition or accurate characterization as it 
may be, to a majority of our race. 

As Rider Haggard says, in one of his novels : — " It is 
that sympathy and perfect accord which is the sweet sign 
of the highest affection, and while it often accompanies 
the passions of men and women, is oftener found in its 
highest form in those relations from which the element of 
sensuality is excluded, raising it above the level of the 
earth. For the love, when that sympathy exists, whether 
between mother and son, husband and wife, or those who, 
while desiring it, have no hope of that relationship, is an 
undying love, and will endure until the night of Time 
has swallowed all things." 

With all that may be said of this delightful relation- 
ship, however, it cannot be too clearly kept in mind that 
it is full of hazards from both within and without. Those 
who have the good fortune to inspire or reciprocate it, 
have need to be always on their guard both to avoid its 
running into that passion which, to the common eye, it 
so nearly resembles if it be not identical with it, and more 
especially to escape the calumny of that vigilance-com- 
mittee, called " Society." This functionary is largely — 
possibly sometimes for conscious good cause — a doubter 
of unqualified human virtue, and by some deplorable 



48 R UMINA TIONS. 

instinct seems to have a supersensitive keenness of scent 
for scandal. 

Probably it is safer — at least as a discreet sacrifice to 
our social conventionalism — to postpone (as Pope advised 
concerning matrimony) the indulgence of this luxury of 
the soul to one's ripest years. The example of the devout 
affection of Buffon, in his sixty-seventh year, for Madame 
Necker — the jilted virgin lover of Gibbon — suggests that 
such a time is not too late for its enjoyment. At this 
calm period he wrote to that exemplary woman of his 
own feelings toward herself in these vehement words: — 
" Ah, gods ! It is not a sentiment without fire ; on the 
contrary it is a true warmth of soul, an emotion, a move- 
ment gentler than that of any other passion ; it is an 
untroubled enjoyment, a happiness rather than a pleas- 
ure ; it is a communication of existence- purer and yet 
more real than the sentiment of love. ,, 

With such authority in vindication of a relationship so 
endearing to the fancy, it may not be too much to expect 
that this vestal flame will perpetually survive the incre- 
dulity or the derision and the condemnation of the obtuse, 
the flippant, or the consciously evil-minded. Acquaint- 
ances, companions, and so-called friends are common 
enough among men with men, or women with women ; 
but for perfect friendship an intimacy of the soul is 
essential that can only spring out of a reciprocal sym- 
pathy with that inner life and individuality which is 
peculiarly our own. This specialty of nature is usually 
guarded with so jealous a watchfulness that it is often 
carried in secret loneliness to the grave. Many believe 
it is never fully revealed except between man and 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 49 

woman. If then we must concede that love of some 
sort can alone be the basis of such an intimacy ; still we 
may discriminate and insist that this love need not be 
passional, but may be higher, and at least purely emo- 
tional and sentimental. 

If Love be love for love itself alone, 
If Soul-love may push Cupid from his throne, 
And hold the kingdom of our hearts' desire, 
To what celestial joys may we aspire ! 

The bloom that mantles on the hanging plum 
Dissolves beneath the gardener's wanton thumb ; 
But dewdrops hid within the lily's cup 
The thirsty morning sun will not drink up. 

Give me to rise above a lover's role, 

To find the true nirvana of my soul 

In calm delights — communion of the heart — 

As mingling streams embrace and never part. 




IV. 



WOMAN SUFFRAGE IN AMERICA. 



A woman impudent and mannish grown 

Is not more loathed than an effeminate man 

In time of action. 

Troilns and Cressida. 




HENEVER a radical change in the established 
order of society, or its methods of govern- 
ment, is proposed by any one, it is well to go 
back to first principles and see whether the 
proposal conflicts with those axioms and postulates in 
which all agree. 

Society cannot be upheld in peace and security nor 
justice administered without a Head, and its necessary 
executive or ministerial subordinates. How this head 
shall be selected is a problem the world has wrestled 
with for six thousand years. For the most part this office 
has been held by virtue of successful usurpation, backed 
by force and sustained by some species of public opinion. 
The title to this position being always of equivocal pater- 
nity, for thousands of years it was taught popularly to be 
regarded as based upon a divine right, perhaps the better 
to silence impertinent inquiry into its origin. 

50 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 5 1 

The necessity of this head being universally conceded, 
mankind have been more inclined to criticise its conduct 
than to question its right, generally believing that it is of 
little importance how the governor be selected, provided 
he govern wisely and mercifully. 

So long as a government has been good, or even better 
than revolution and the necessary risk of anarchy, society 
has submitted and made the best of it. But often when 
the administration of government has become intolerable, 
the people (/. e., the mass who are governed) have risen 
in their strength, thrown off the yoke at whatever sacrifice, 
and taken a fresh start. 

No one has a positive, absolute natural right to govern 
any others, neither a king (by the usurpation of himself 
or his ancestor) nor any other governor, although made 
such by the choice of the majority of a people — except 
those individuals who personally choose him or in some 
manner acquiesce in or ratify his selection. 

The people (neither as a body nor by the voice of a 
majority) have no such right to govern anybody, except 
those individuals who choose thus to acquiesce. No man 
has a right to govern me against my will. But if I find 
my greater advantage in submitting to the control of the 
law of the community, whatsoever it may be, and choose 
to live in it rather than to flee from it, I become a mem- 
ber of that community, surrender a portion of my positive 
rights, and submit myself to its will as expressed in its 
law. So also if I violate its law while within its territory 
I subject myself to its power whether I wish or no. In 
such case, too, it has a control over me and has acquired 
by my act or sufferance a right to govern me. 



52 RUMINATIONS. 

Suffrage, or voting for persons for office who may 
make or execute the laws of the land, is not a matter 
of abstract individual right, but a privilege of conven- 
ience, of expediency, of law, of agreement — and may 
become an obligation or duty. While we live in a 
community it has the power to make its own laws, to 
which we must conform. If we do not choose to submit 
to and obey them our reserved right in the premises is to 
quit that community and leave it to the peaceable posses- 
sion of those who do like it ; — and so on. So much for the 
positive natural right of any one, man or boy, woman or 
girl, to vote. 

What then is the most expedient rule for a wise com- 
munity to impose upon itself, in determining who shall be 
permitted to vote ? Pure, " universal suffrage " no 
one claims. All persons under a certain age (generally 
twenty-one), and all incompetents (lunatics, criminals, 
etc.), are everywhere excluded. 

Where shall the line be drawn and upon what idea ? 
Who shall be allowed to vote, and who shall not ? Cer- 
tainly all will agree that in the abstract, except for some 
special abnormal reason, only those capable of intelli- 
gently and honestly exercising this privilege and likely 
to do so should have it. The ignorant, the vicious, those 
under duress, and those who will not take the trouble to 
use the privilege honestly, or will sell it for money, prob- 
ably all will admit, ought not to have a voice in the 
choosing of governors, or in making laws to control the 
rest of the community. So, also, those who by nature 
are unfitted for such a duty, or who by the habitudes 
of society are disabled from intelligent independent 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 



53 



action in the matter, in like manner ought to be ex- 
cluded. But who shall determine which are the incom- 
petent, and how shall we separate them from those who 
are competent ? 

If any be foreign-born and therefore unacquainted 
with our laws and customs, they are excluded (until fitted, 
or adjudged to be comparatively so, by naturalization) 
under a rule easily ascertained and applied. If any be 
manifestly unfit, by crime or imbecility or infancy, no 
one doubts how to exclude them. " Infancy " being a 
variable term is fixed by common consent of mankind as 
including all persons under some specific age — say from 
eighteen to twenty-five. Those so excluded do not usu- 
ally fret under the application of the rule, because time 
soon cures the grievance, if they feel justly any there be. 
Now among the remaining classes a large proportion of 
persons is manifestly unfit — when taken separately. But 
it would be impracticable to draw the line by law except 
by classes. Let us particularize. 

There are the uneducated. Some States exclude those 
who cannot " read and write/' This is a sound rule in the 
abstract. But in the application there is much difficulty. 
Many unfit persons can do both ; while many worthy ones 
can do neither. There were the negroes, born and bred 
in slavery ; — clearly unfit, both by their nature, habits, and 
want of training. They were so large a class, and the 
surrounding whites believed to be naturally so hostile in 
feeling and interest as respects their claim of both politi- 
cal and civil rights, that it was deemed expedient (whether 
wisely or not) to give the vote to this class ; — as a necessary 
measure of policy, for the best interest of the whole com- 



54 * UMINA TIONS. 

munity ; perhaps a tyrannical experiment with an insolu- 
ble problem. 

There are those persons who are without property, 
and therefore apparently without a conscious interest 
in the management of the government, which is prin- 
cipally concerned in respect to property and its uses. 
Some of these are likely to abuse the privilege, and to 
make a class, many of whose votes will be either bought 
and sold, or influenced by unworthy considerations, leading 
to party corruption ; and so on. Surely in a perfect com- 
munity this class, large as it is, ought to be excluded. 
But it is unsafe to exclude them as incapables, because 
they will gradually organize themselves into a turbulent 
body. Under a purely monarchical or despotic govern- 
ment, these may be kept in order by force, but in a republic 
they will be likely to make more trouble if excluded than 
if admitted. So that, undesirable as they are, merely 
from political expediency they generally have the vote. 

Then, after all others are named, there are women. 
Common consent of mankind for six thousand years has 
found other occupation for all their capacity. They are 
as yet far behind this age in doing what they are not 
prevented from doing, and what as citizens they may do, 
if their special natural limitations do not prohibit. If 
they can do more than fulfil all their social duties and 
functions as wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters, never- 
theless as a class it must be conceded they have accom- 
plished comparatively little beyond. The trades, countless 
occupations, and nearly all the professions are, by law, 
open to them — as well as mechanics and the arts. 
They have not yet demonstrated their capacity to fill 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 55 

all these employments to an appreciable degree. Even 
their own apparel and ornaments are still largely the 
work of men. 

No one complains of this, or pretends that it is their 
fault. It is their choice, for the most part, as far as prac- 
ticable, except when necessary, to avoid such supplemen- 
tary employments. To do most of these things well and 
successfully demands denial of pleasure, convenience, 
and comfort, an apprenticeship of long study and disci- 
pline, with steady and persistent application, besides severe 
practical training. Some women have partially tried it, 
and a few have succeeded in a measure. But as a sex 
and as a class, their instincts being wiser than their 
artificial and borrowed reason, recognizing their natural 
and social boundaries, they have not made hitherto very 
serious attempts to conquer all the inevitable difficulties 
in their path. 

They are not fitted apparently by nature or habit to 
be political citizens, even if wholly left to themselves. 
As a class they would fail as a useful factor in govern- 
ment if brought in competition with, and subject to the 
influences of the sex which is their superior in force, and 
likewise in persistent fraud, and chicanery in general. 

If admitted to the exercise of the duty or privilege of 
suffrage, they would add one more capricious element to 
the many now existing, which (being only disturbing 
forces, it has been found impracticable to exclude, and 
have been admitted only from expediency to prevent 
some greater mischief to the community) are in fact 
simply tolerated as necessary evils, and suffered as an 
unavoidable nuisance. 



$6 £ UMINA TIONS. 

The opinions of prominent men are often quoted in 
favor of woman suffrage. In a matter of this kind no 
man's mere opinion is of any special value. It is not 
unlikely his whole notion of woman is an imaginary ideal, 
or is derived from his knowledge of some individual, such 
as his mother, wife, sister, daughter, or sweetheart, with- 
out any thorough knowledge or thought of the sex as a 
class, or of its history. The experience of the human 
race may be appealed to when abstract argument fails to 
convince either way ; but simple individual opinion on 
such a subject as an argument, is little better than 
rubbish. 

The experiment in Wyoming and other sparse com- 
munities is no more valuable than if it had been tried on 
board the " Mayflower." They are equally remote in their 
conditions from the circumstances of the large cities of 
America, which now control the politics of this country. 

It is nonsensical to endeavor to make it appear that, as 
a community-governing-person, woman occupies a status 
the same as that of man. Whoever assumes to exercise 
political power, by his very assumption pledges himself, at 
whatever inconvenience, to bear political burdens, unless 
for special individual reasons he be excused — as a favor. 
He must fight if he expect to vote. The majority con- 
trols by virtue of superior power, active or in reserve. 

Voting is disguised war. The guns, the marches, the 
toil, the sweat, the privation, and the suffering are just 
behind the ballot-box. The battle is here to the strong. 
True the weak accompany the army and live under its 
protection ; but they follow in the rear as non-combatants, 
with the commissary and medical departments. They 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 57 

care for the hungry, the sick, and wounded. They are 
none the less useful, none the less necessary, in their 
proper places. But reverse the order of position or of 
movement, and there would be first chaos among them, 
and next annihilation. Is it not obvious then, that it 
would be unwise statesmanship voluntarily to add another 
element of weakness where so many now unavoidably 
exist ? 

Woman is by nature emotional, and swiftly obeys her 
will and inclination, when she can lawfully do so. Man 
is by nature more logical, practically governed by his 
intellect and actual interest, present or remote. Self- 
discipline and voluntary resistance to his impulses are 
generally believed by him to be necessary to his fair 
development and ultimate success in pursuit of his per- 
sonal aims in life. She lives in the present ; and by 
flattery, simulation, appeals to her emotional nature, and 
other arts, is more easily led or betrayed to her own de- 
struction. He is commonly conceited, selfish, cruel, 
grasping, ambitious, and aims at power ; striving by force 
or fraud to subdue others. He shrewdly waives present 
advantage, calculating " the long result of Time " to make 
up any deficiency and to acccomplish his schemes of 
self-aggrandizement. 

Amid the collision of these powerful forces of man's 
nature contending against each other, justice is wrought 
out, in a rough way, and ultimately prevails to some ex- 
tent. But every disturbing ingredient, every unnecessary 
or equivocal factor, in the problem, further delays the 
progress of right, the establishment of just laws, and the 
fair government of a political community. 



58 K UMINA TIONS. 

Woman in refined communities, generally, is physically 
incapable of the relative duties and burdens that the 
exercise of this franchise would devolve upon her. Who- 
ever asserts a right in this world must be prepared to 
maintain it in some manner by force. If she had the 
privilege of voting she would soon lose the practical use 
of it through fraud or violence. She could not maintain 
it by reason of her want of physical strength to defend it. 

All " rights," so-called practically, in the last analysis, 
rest upon force. There are no classes in society (except 
those recognized as incompetents and incapables) who 
hold their " rights " by favor and by the protection of 
the stronger. If they are not the wards of society they 
must be prepared to contend by the strong arm, as its 
guardians and masters. But a refined woman cannot 
bear ordinarily the trial and fatigue of such a brutal con- 
flict. She could not endure the physical burden of up- 
holding such citizenship. She was born or bred for other 
duties than politics, and instinctively knows she has a 
higher, a more radical and further reaching mission than 
that of making laws to regulate civil rights and obligations, 
or even of filling offices. 

Moreover, if the scheme of giving woman the ballot 
were adopted and it were put into successful operation 
for two or three generations — which period at least would 
be required to adapt society to the change, so that woman 
could have the practical benefit of it (for so strong are the 
habits of society that it would take more than forty years to 
give her any real advantage in the use of it) — what would 
be the inevitable result ? One is forced to answer ; — 
nothing less than the moral unsexing of woman. The 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 59 

chief amenity and consolation of the weariness and emp- 
tiness of life in this petty world would be gone. If the 
dreams of Utopian female enthusiasts were realized, and 
even paradise were so re-established, it would be at best 
but such a paradise as there was before Eve came into it. 
More probably it would be pandemonium, with only the 
difference that the lesser demons would have the upper 
hand in misrule. At its best it would be a " society " 
without " family " (as we understand that term) or " prop- 
erty " ; — a world not worth living in. 

And after all were done as sought for, it could accom- 
plish nothing whatever for the benefit of woman herself, 
in respect to her political condition. It would add in 
fact merely (as has been said) another impracticable fac- 
tor to the already difficult problem — how to produce a 
wise and equitable government that shall sustain and pro- 
mote the progress of civil society ; — a problem as yet very, 
very far from solution. Besides, at the same time, it would 
necessarily take away, or at least paralyze for most good 
results, one of the chief supports and most conservative 
influences which now uphold all that is pure, sweet, and 
lovable in our present social system. Woman becoming 
self-assertive and aggressive, the rival of man in his 
ambitions and selfishness, would forfeit or lose the 
deference he now gratefully accords to her.* 

* The following is cut from a contemporary Boston newspaper : 
" Courtesy in the Boston horse-car is a lost art. It has been crushed 
out by the hand-to-hand struggle for existence, where room for twenty 
serves for fourscore. The most courteous gentleman becomes a social 
savage the moment he steps upon the platform. ' Pay your fare and 
fight your passage,' is the received motto. It 's a question of the 



60 R UMINA TIONS. 

She would no longer have the privileges, now joyfully 
awarded to her as a dependent. She would be com- 
pelled to contend for her acquired rights. Society, how- 
ever, would suffer most by being deprived of that gracious- 
ness which grows out of the social intercourse of the sexes, 
as now regulated by the law of reciprocal dependence, in 
the manner nature and history have unmistakingly willed 
it to be. 

Finally as woman's friend, and also as a friend of hu- 
manity, I would entreat her (when ambitious and discon- 
tented) to remember the homely fable of the dog and the 
shadow ; and never to let go her present firm hold upon 
man and society in a frantic anxiety to grasp the illusory 
image of " woman suffrage." 

survival of the fittest in its most barbaric form. In one ride from 
Scollay Square to Charlestown a woman stood with a child in her arms 
the entire distance, and nearly every seat occupied by men." 





Mk^^^^^W^'^^^^^^^^^^^ i 





V. 



WORDS ABOUT WOMAN. 

Who is 't can read a woman ? 

Cy?7ibeline. 

Her Childlike Nature. 




EARLY a century and a half ago — before the 
present " emancipation " of woman was 
accomplished — Lord Chesterfield wrote to 
his son, as most readers will remember : — " I 
will let you into certain arcana that will be very useful 
for you to know, but which you must, with the utmost 
care, conceal, and never seem to know. Women, then, 
are only children of a larger growth. . . . For 
solid reasoning, good sense, I never, in my life, knew 
one that had it, or who reasoned or acted consequentially 
for four and twenty hours together. . . . But 
these are secrets which you must keep inviolably, if you 
would not, like Orpheus, be torn to pieces by the whole 
sex." What portion, if any, of these traits of our greater 
grandames has been transmitted to the present liberated 

61 



62 & UM1NA TIONS. 

generation ? Shall we suffer the fate of Orpheus if 
we tell ? 

Woman, as a subject for generalization, has been from 
time immemorial a fascinating but bewildering puzzle to 
civilized men. Virgil calls her varium et mutabile semper. 
Pope says she is " a contradiction " — " at heart a 
rake " — has but two ruling passions, " the love of pleasure 
and the love of sway." Then he gives it up — quoting 
with approbation his friend Martha Blount's saying : — 
" Most women have no character at all." Byron says 
she is "false " as " an epitaph." Otway, w T ith Helen and 
Cleopatra in his eye, calls her " destructive " and worse. 
Schopenhauer's venomous malice need not be referred to. 
Scott tells us she is " a ministering angel " ; Lowell, that 
when "perfected" she is "earth's noblest thing." And 
so on. One might quote hackneyed phrases endlessly, 
and yet find only confusion of ideas. Possibly, however, 
no small share of this masculine muddle comes from the 
overlooking of a physiological condition that is so obvious 
it is not seen at all by her censors ! Michelet alone seems 
fully to comprehend her complexity and perhaps irrespon- 
sibility. It would be idle to be dogmatic on the subject. 

Aside from the temptation to be satirical or sarcastic, 
the fatuity of man's judgment in this matter appears to 
be of, at least, twofold origin. First there is an incapacity 
of some men — who are perchance destitute of feminality 
— to comprehend, by sympathetic insight, either the 
intricate complexity, or the spirituality, or the evanescent 
traits of a woman's nature. Second, others, who are too 
sentimental and perhaps also deficient in virility, attempt 
to characterize the whole sex by a generalization deduced 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 63 

from the too few striking examples best known to them- 
selves, either historically or through personal observation. 
Exceptional characters are an unsafe basis for generaliza- 
tion, or even for wide speculation, concerning human 
nature in either man or woman. The method is easy and 
alluring, but the result is unsafe for practical purposes. 
Doubtless the writer will be thought to make some worse 
mistake than either class referred to. At the least, how- 
ever, in this imperfect, one-sided sketch, he will endeavor 
to keep on familiar ground and to be not unjust — even in 
attempting to deal with a supposed chameleon. 

Probably it will be not unsafe to say that women, in 
many of their foibles, as in some of their lesser virtues, 
generally seem to incline to resemble children more 
closely than most men do. Perhaps this tendency is a 
still lingering result of their traditional and habitual, real 
or apparent, subordination to men in the more important 
affairs of life— ever since, in a state of savagery, they 
were accustomed to be captured, or sold as chattels, and 
compelled to be wives or slaves, or both, of their con- 
querors. Not that all men are superior to them in 
intellectual attributes — very far from it — but they widely 
differ. Their mental characters for the most part are not 
naturally or habitually quite judicial, dispassionate, or 
impersonal, according to the masculine ideal standard of 
what is becoming to the judgment of a high order 
of matured intellectual manhood. Instinct, insight, and 
intuition are prone to be restive under scientific opposi- 
tion. For instance, in personal controversy concerning 
matters of opinion, however ready to argue in a reasonable 
way (which is not always) they — like ordinary children 



64 ^ UMINA TIONS. 

and indeed like too many men — are, by inclination, for the 
most part, apparently, loth to be convicted of a serious 
error, if they happen to be involved in one. In their 
hearts they are apt to suspect the motives of an antago- 
nist ; and sometimes will find it hard even to believe in the 
honesty of those who seriously differ with them in their 
cherished views. When in such debate facts or sound 
arguments fail them — as will sometimes occur, when they 
chance to be in the wrong — if pressed too hardly by an 
inconsiderate adversary, are not they prone often (again 
not unlike some very young men) to lapse even into per- 
sonal censure, secret or expressed ? Or if utterly routed, 
are not they moved, sometimes strongly, like children, to 
whimper, possibly even to sulk ? Do they expect to 
gain the apparent advantage of victory, through some 
concession of an adversary's magnanimity ? The world 
seems to be of that opinion. 

Another not uncommon trait of women, although per- 
haps both amiable and commendable, may yet be said 
to be childlike, in some of its aspects. They prefer im- 
mediateness, and dread circumlocution, or even preamble. 
If you desire to hold, or even to excite, their attention, 
come to the point at once. Indeed in all dealings with 
them, as with children, it is better to avoid every form of 
circumlocution, disguise, or indirection. If you would 
be popular with them, or wish to preserve, as well as to 
deserve, their esteem, be always frank and simple — never 
ironical or sarcastic. To begin with, if you deal in satire 
or ridicule, they will not understand you ordinarily. 
When they perceive your drift, they will suspect you 
probably of desiring to make them appear ridiculous. 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 65 

This — like most men and all children — they cannot for- 
give easily. Besides soon they will be afraid of you, and 
in the end dislike you altogether ; — perhaps even imagin- 
ing you a monster of ill-nature, bad intentions, and insin- 
cerity. For, although imaginative, they despise untruth, 
in others, even in a jest. 

Most women proverbially take as little interest in an 
abstract proposition as do children. In the mass, they 
usually care almost nothing for the mere general principles 
of thought. They are not ordinarily zealous, or of long- 
enduring patience, in a search for the primal seeds of 
philosophic thinking. They want to know the facts, the 
incidents, and especially the actors, as well as the direct 
aspect of specific matters, as they have been, or are now. 
They must have all things — except mysteries — as it were, 
in concrete form. In questions of judgment they do not 
usually ask for the raw materials, out of which an inde- 
pendent opinion may be formed upon any novel subject. 
They prefer perhaps, like children or common men, to 
know what you think about it. If you would instruct, 
persuade, or influence their judgment or conduct, against 
their will, even in general matters, never seek to do so 
with a maxim. You might as well try to produce a musi- 
cal sound with a logarithm. Give them an illustration 
from some vivid fact, or, better, some personal incident. 
But beware of relying upon unfamiliar postulates or 
axioms to sustain your statement or opinion. Indeed a 
woman is strongly inclined to contemn and resent an 
aphorism ; unless perchance it be in full accord with her 
present convictions. When uttered to demolish her side 
of a controversy, it seems to her, usually, palpably ab- 



66 1? UMINA TIONS. 

surd, and wholly fails of its purpose, however apposite 
you may consider it ; — more especially, if you call it logi- 
cally conclusive. It operates somewhat like a random 
shot, or perhaps not unlike a spent-ball. Either it will 
fail to hit the mark, and she will not heed it at all ; or, if 
it happen to strike — its direct, or projectile, force being 
lost — its irregular, or rotary, motion will survive, only to 
tear and irritate, by a ragged wound. 

Again women are supposed to resemble children in 
their general way of meeting opposition to their wishes. 
It is often said they do not, ordinarily — as men ought to, 
and sometimes think they do — appeal directly to the rea- 
son of their opponents, or even elaborately urge expedi- 
ency. They seem to think it quite enough to show per- 
sonal convenience or desirableness. Indeed, as a rule, 
when excited, they appear to abhor altogether what men 
call pure ratiocination. Perhaps this is so, for the rea- 
son, that what they wish for seems to themselves to be 
so plainly fit and self-evident, as not to require argument 
with a person of sense, and should be granted as a matter 
of course. In fact the king-bolt of a large part of the 
favorite methods of feminine demonstration is this little 
phrase — "of course." Lacking sometimes the power of 
sheer strength to overcome a determined masculine resist- 
ance, in order to carry a coveted point — as for instance, 
commonly, in domestic intercourse — her childlike nature, 
while in good humor, will incline her to cajolery or to 
caressing. But, if an evil temper be aroused in her, per- 
haps it may drive her occasionally to — shall it be said ? — 
threats, insult ; or mayhap — when tormented beyond 
saintly endurance — even to ill-suppressed malediction — in 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 67 

cases where her early moral education has been too much 
neglected ! Failing, however, in these gentle or malign 
expedients, like children again, she may shed tears to 
show how harshly you are dealing with her, and how 
mercilessly you are exercising a tyrannical advantage of 
your ill-natured, superior power in opposition to her rea- 
sonable wishes. For, generally speaking, as with chil- 
dren, whenever a man successfully resists a woman's will, 
through some latent law of her nature, an impression is 
left upon her mind that he is either cowardly or cruel, 
or both. In fact cruelty and cowardice appear to her to 
be precisely the words to represent that gratuitous abuse 
of superior power a man seems to her to be exercising — 
or of that advantage of accidental opportunity of which 
he is meanly availing himself — when he wholly prohibits 
what she earnestly and innocently wishes to enjoy. 

Childhood's extreme sensitiveness to undeserved praise 
or blame seems naturally to survive longer in woman 
than in man. Although less conceited, and no more 
(perhaps less) susceptible to flattery, when adroitly ad- 
ministered, than are most men, women are said to be 
more habitually covetous of general approbation and 
admiration. They fade and wither more easily than men 
when they lose the verbally expressed good-will of others. 
Men are often so strong in their self-reliance, they can 
defy even an adverse noisy public opinion, without detri- 
ment to their self-respect ; but women cannot, with equa- 
nimity, except in rare instances, face a frowning world — 
be it right or wrong in its displeasure. For alas, an 
unprotected woman's character is commonly so suscepti- 
ble to slander — from a rival or a coward — so difficult, 



68 £ UMINA TIONS. 

when breathed upon, to be vindicated and restored be- 
yond suspicion ! Men usually appear to have also 
stronger and clearer abstract notions of mere right and 
wrong, apart from conventional dicta or religious dogmas, to 
sustain their self-love. Indeed, some look up to an ideal 
far above received opinion, and grow almost sublime in 
their efforts, despite obloquy, to reach it ; while most 
women, who chance to find themselves on the wrong side 
of conventional rules, are liable to lose even their self- 
respect, and perhaps to retrograde in real character, if not 
in actual conduct. So children — even when well grown 
— are often demoralized, and proverbially become incor- 
rigible, through bad treatment, arising out of the ill-ad- 
vised or excessive suspicion or disapprobation of those in 
practical authority over them. 

Again, nothing has been more commonly noted, by 
harsh and exacting men, than the apparent likeness of 
many women to children, in their usually accredited 
craving for forbidden things. The impulse of self-will 
being strong in the nature of each, the suggestion of 
things prohibited has been supposed to provoke an appe- 
tite for what is denied. Perhaps they find a fascinating 
pleasure in the consciousness or exercise of power to 
overcome obstacles to inclination in their path. A recog- 
nition of this similarity of disposition is the motive of 
many a nursery tale — just as it appears to crop out, in myth 
or history, as an instinctive trait of our earliest mother. 

Women are also said to resemble children somewhat in 
respect to their unsatisfied wants. Almost every woman 
appears to be constantly craving something — a little, or 
more than a little — beyond her immediate ability to reach 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 69 

it, without the assistance of some other person ; — some- 
thing she desires above everything else. Whoever shall 
carry her nearest to it, or bring to her the largest portion 
of what she so covets ; whoever shall most quickly enable 
her to possess it, with the least expenditure of force or 
material, on her part, with the smallest sacrifice of her 
pride or self-love, and with the least concession by, or 
cost to, her, of what she values — whether she seek it for 
power or pleasure — usually soonest will win her alliance 
and friendship — perhaps her affection, or even love. 

In their fondness for dress, trinkets, and finery, women 
are usually supposed to possess, in common with boys, 
an enduring trait ; which the latter, however, first outgrow, 
and, if they become real men, soon discard entirely. A 
man's vain pride in symbolical gewgaws — emblematical 
of power, or public distinction — depends upon another 
principle. 

Some claim to have discovered also in woman a specially 
juvenile and unmanlike tendency to spontaneous preju- 
dices or antipathies, and inexplicable instantaneous per- 
sonal likes or dislikes : Ignoramus. 

Women and children are not troubled generally, as are 
most men, by the common bugbear of inconsistency. 
They are disposed to follow unhesitatingly the bold lead 
of Emerson — a man of feminine intellect — in this matter. 
Not only do they appear sometimes to exercise their con- 
ceded prerogative of changing expressed opinions at will, 
but they are said to be able to act in two opposite 
characters at the same time without wincing ! A single 
instance may illustrate : — To be the petted and responsive 
darling of an uxorious husband, seems to involve a dis- 






yo R UMINA TIONS. 

qualification for playing the role of a tyrant or a scold. 
Yet there is sometimes seen a woman high-bred, beautiful, 
lovable — and to the world perhaps always amiable — who, 
with unconscious incongruity, can claim and accept, when 
allowed, all the privileges, immunities, and endearments 
of a minion, yet be able to exercise, at the same time, the 
ugly attributes of the other characters mentioned. 

One word more. Like children, too, women, from their 
mere simplicity and honesty of character, are usually 
credulous, seldom skeptical ; not easily surprised by 
effects without apparent causes ; but inclined to be spec- 
ulative among chances ; having faith in their good luck, 
and confident of favorable results, with little question of 
why or wherefore. 

Let us stop. If Chesterfield be deemed correct in his 
analysis of femininity, and these supposed attributes of 
our remote grandmothers survive, enough has been said 
to emphasize his wonderful discovery. Probably too 
much has been uttered to be forgiven by the woman-like 
men or man-like women, who fancy they represent the 
respective sexes, if any such shall condescend to hear it. 
It would be rash to ask woman, however metamorphosed, 
to look at man's judgment or opinion concerning herself, 
from a masculine standpoint. Indeed, it would involve 
a contradiction of all that has been said here, even to 
expect it. 

Women as Religionists. 

It is a well recognized peculiarity of women that, irre- 
spective of mere emotionalness — whether she be naturally 
possessed of more spiritual insight than man or not — at 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 7 1 

least her understanding is usually ready to accept, without 
much question, the abstruser formularies of dogmatic 
theology. She yields somewhat easily to the suggestion 
of supernatural agencies. Her nature, so inherently, is 
inclined to religion, as a system of faith and worship — 
beyond and indeed quite outside of morality or virtue — 
that she acquiesces kindly in its most absolute creeds, and 
readily adopts all of its mystic symbols. Man — though 
easily terrorized by superstition — is naturally more skep- 
tical, if not indifferent. Ordinarily his understanding or 
reason somehow first must be convinced, before he can be 
said thoroughly, to believe any doctrine ; — however much, 
through his passions or temperament or training, or from 
motives of policy, he may yield to it. If the matter be 
outside of his common experience, his real judgment, if 
disciplined, usually demands explicit evidence and extra- 
ordinary proofs of its verity, — although such tangible 
proofs may not be always necessary to induce him to 
conform to established custom in religious matters. 

As in other affairs, he is sometimes indifferent, and 
perhaps more often a creature of habit — consulting his 
own ease, or prudently avoiding disadvantageous collisions 
with the religious methods of the community in which he 
dwells. But whenever you seek his active partisanship, 
or ask him to change or adopt some cardinal moral or 
practical rule of his life, or endeavor to bind his con- 
science by some mysterious rite, you must at least furnish 
him a positive motive of personal benefit in his worldly 
affairs, or convince his understanding and show him some 
apparently logical process through which he may find 
such a mental conviction as he is capable of having. 



72 R UMINA TIONS. 

With woman there appears to be a difference. Some 
accredit her with more intuition or insight. However 
this may be, at least she accomplishes her intellectual 
processes, as it were, per saltum. She sees the point at 
which she wishes to arrive ; she shuts her eyes, perhaps 
opens her mouth — and— presto, she is there ! 

Let us furnish an instance or two by way of illustra- 
tion of what is meant. Here is a brief minute of a 
conversation once had with a devout woman of much 
ability and education, upon the dogma of the Trinity 
— a subject which it is understood most theological 
scholars concede to be undemonstrable to the ordinary 
understanding. 

She : It is a marvel to my mind that men should 
higgle so much about comprehending this vital article of 
our faith, when it is so easily illustrated. 

Myself : Madam, you amaze me. I thought learned 
theologians were agreed it is a mystery — a metaphysical 
idea beyond ordinary comprehension, and certainly inex- 
plicable to the external senses — one that must be taken, 
if at all, by credence purely, or at least unassisted by 
logical demonstration. 

She: Why, by no means. Here, in this little triplet 
of clover leaves is a complete illustration. Look at it. 
The three leaves are combined in one stalk, and the one 
stalk is three leaves. Could anything be more simple ? 

Myself : Nothing, if satisfactory. Does that elucida- 
tion wholly satisfy your mind as to an identity, a person- 
ality, triple in essence ? 

She; Perfectly, 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 73 

Upon another occasion, in a talk with a woman of 
unusual intelligence— the wife of a clergyman — about 
wrong-doing, confession, repentance from evil, and the 
difficulty of reconciling with common reason how religious 
faith can compensate for moral delinquency ; how one, 
having erred, confessed, and repented, can keep on 
erring and repenting, yet come out right at last by 
virtue of mere repentance, as is sometimes taught from 
a pulpit. 

She: I cannot perceive any difficulty whatever. It 
astonishes me that men make such a pother about 
being good Christians. Why, the whole system of 
Christianity is summed up in three words — justification 
by faith. 

Myself ; May I ask you to explain what specific mean- 
ing you attach to those words ? 

She: Certainly. If you believe in the teachings of 
our Saviour — no matter at how late a period, or after 
whatever extent of sinning — all is forgiven ; and you will 
reap the reward of everlasting happiness. The only 
thing to be apprehended is delay — lest you defer the 
matter until it shall be too late. 

Myself : When will it be too late ? Must not one — 
instead of sinning and repenting — avoid wrong altogether, 
or else suffer consequent punishment ? 

She : Not at all. That is the doctrine of what you 
call natural religion. At the best it is mere deism. 
Christianity is immeasurably beyond that. Your tenets 
would save only the righteous ; but Christianity was given 
us to save sinners. No matter though you have been 



74 -R UMINA TIONS. 

immersed in wickedness, if you once believe, you will 
be saved — as, of course, thenceforth you strive to sin 
no more. 

Myself: Thanks. 

Men and Women. 

The common talk about an imaginary, absolute " equal- 
ity " of man and woman is wholly misleading. They 
might be accounted exactly equal in many of the qualities 
which they possess in common ; and yet — by reason of 
the dissimilarity of some, or the possession or the 
absence of others, quite as essential — be found so dif- 
ferent in entirety as not to be susceptible of the notion 
of profitable comparison at all. In fact, the suggestion 
of a bald equality does injustice to both. It is a coarse, 
rudimentary, and indiscriminating view of the matter, 
suitable only to a people recently emerging from 
savagery ; — a sort of gross reaction of opinion, against 
that long slavery of woman, which has been the natural 
outcrop and survival of the instinctive tyranny and 
brutality of the stronger, prevalent among barbarous and 
warlike nations. The peculiar mental and moral charac- 
teristics of woman — difficult as they may be to formulate 
in words, when taking the sex as a unit — are as well 
recognized and as easily discriminable from those of man, 
by our common consciousness, as are the outlines of her 
bodily conformation, or the exigencies of her physical 
nature. The closer the scrutiny and keener the eye of 
the observer, the more obvious become the distinctively 
peculiar mental and moral traits of either sex. 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 75 

They are as much unlike in some respects as they are 
alike in others. And there is no apparent evidence of 
any design, in their respective creation, that by force of 
artificial training they should be brought to resemble 
each other more closely, either in mind, body, or tempera- 
ment. As barbarism recedes, and educational refinement 
advances, the more man and woman are found to differ 
in essentials. Nature seems to have settled this matter 
by a law that cannot be disregarded with impunity. As 
either sex approaches a uniformity with the other, it 
deteriorates in its best peculiarities. The almost universal 
verdict of mankind is that a man who succeeds in making 
himself resemble a woman, impairs, to some extent, those 
qualities which make him most respected by both sexes ; 
and that as a woman approximates in resemblance to a man, 
she diminishes, to say the least, her claim to be considered 
what a true woman ought to be. In short, both reason 
and experience seem to indicate that woman can contrib- 
ute best her proper quota to the progressive civilization 
of the world 3 by cultivating and energizing those faculties 
of power and skill, and those amiable and virtuous traits 
of her nature, wherein she most differs from man. She 
can accomplish best her natural mission by turning her 
attention away from all attempts to rival him in such 
characteristics as she may most resemble him. For it is 
easy to perceive that the whole world moves forward 
most steadily, when the least force is wasted by the 
rivalry of coincident powers. The greatest momentum 
is acquired by the reciprocal co-operation, through 
special adaptation, of such forces as are natural allies. 
And although the progress of the woman of our day, in 



j6 R UMINA TIONS. 

some departments of art, science, scholarship, artisanship 
and even of common labor, has been immense, and the 
horizon of her capability is still far from being reached ; 
yet there is a steady accumulation of proof of the rule 
that difference from, and not similarity to, man's work, is 
the test of excellence in the result of her well-chosen 
labors. In fact, the resemblance of woman to man is 
only in gross. Her distinguishing traits, instead of dis- 
appearing, become more marked in proportion as civilized 
society begins to discountenance war, and to progress, 
through the gates of commerce — haply, at no very distant 
day, free commerce — towards permanent peace ; and as 
the gentler peculiarities of human nature continue to 
develop, and harden into habits of personal, moral, intel- 
lectual, and physical refinement. 

The better the cultivation of the higher faculties of the 
masculine intellect, the more judicial, colorless, and im- 
personal it becomes in its dealings with human affairs. 
With woman, however, mental acquisition, cultivation, 
and exercise — developing her special tendencies towards 
the imaginative and the emotional — while they broaden 
her comprehension, and sharpen her intellectual vision, 
give a keener edge to her power of analyzation, heighten 
her faculty of appreciation, refine her feelings to a more 
acute sensibility, yet rarely do they appear to lead her 
intellect up to the dry atmosphere of the absolute, or 
carry it far aloof from the warm precincts of the personal 
and sympathetic. It almost truthfully might be said, 
generally, that in woman the judicial faculty seldom 
grows and never ripens. Man, for the most part, creates 
and shapes the thought of the world. Woman can illus- 



CONCERNING WOMEN, 77 

trate and embellish whatever she touches. Man can find 
his intellectual ideals in a conception of the abstract, 
and, by an induction of general principles, form a com- 
prehensive grouping of vast varieties, having some 
common germ or radix. Women in general are less 
scientific, cling more closely to the particular, and are 
liable to lose their way — in clouds of fancy, or the 
vacuities of an undisciplined imagination — when the 
logical clue (as may easily happen) slips from their 
gentle grasp. 

Let a highly intellectual and attractive man talk with 
an average woman about matters purely general, and, 
ordinarily, she will appear to follow him, so long as she 
can see the speaker, or hear his voice ; — although too often 
she will be thinking only of him. As he goes outside of 
himself, and soars into the abstract, her feet begin to miss 
the ground, and she begs to be set down again. So long 
as she can make a personal application of what is said, 
her intellectual sympathy is active ; but so soon as that 
fascinating process becomes impracticable, her mind is 
likely to go wandering amid the tangles of an intricate 
maze, while her apparent attention is retained only by 
her admiration of the demi-god of her fancy, whom she 
begins to worship, as he utters harmonious sounds that 
convey to her mind no specific meaning. 

Let a real poet read his higher musings to an intellec- 
tually cultivated man, and the sympathetic hearer proba- 
bly will say: — "Yes, I appreciate fully your pictured 
thought. I recognize those types or emblems ; they are 
true to nature, and I feel the everlasting brotherhood of 
the human soul. Your arrows strike at the heart of the 



78 R UMINA TIONS. 

mystery of many embarrassing varieties. By the torch- 
light of your genius, I now see the continuity of countless 
things that formerly seemed to me discordant and frag- 
mentary." And so on. Read the same work to a woman 
of similar grade of cultivated capacity, and very likely 
she will say : — "Whom do you mean to personify? Did 
that really happen to you ? Do you mean me ? " or 
something of like import. 

Indeed, as has been often said, this difference of 
intellect between man and woman appears to be 
wholly one of kind, rather than of degree ; where- 
fore comparisons upon any other basis are liable to 
induce more mischief, than advantage, toward whole- 
some and practical views of this seemingly intricate 
matter. 

Possibly what may be called the wrong-headedness of 
those who talk so earnestly of a supposed equality of the 
sexes arises, as has been suggested, from their seeing the 
manifestations of power in a few women who have mas- 
culine intellects, and contrasting such productions with 
the efforts of men they know, who have only feminine 
brains ; — for, in spite of what often is said speculatively to 
the contrary, there is obviously and practically recog- 
nized a real and radical distinction, as of sex, in intellect. 
But such cases of masculine women are strictly abnormal, 
and really illustrate only an exception. However, these 
fugitive suggestions are designed to touch but a single 
phase of the profound and ineffaceable distinction 
Nature has made between the essential and elemental 
characteristics, both intellectual and moral, of man and 
woman. 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 79 

Civil Rights of Women. 

To the eye of anxious, thoughtful forecast, it sometimes 
seems as if the popular ideas of our day, pitching head- 
long toward the legal emancipation of woman from all 
male right of control of her person or property — and the 
consequent disappearance of the universal, time-honored 
relation of dependence and support between the sexes — 
might ultimately leave but little practical ground for the 
fact of legal marriage to rest upon, beyond the uncertain 
basis of love, passion, or the desire for offspring. The 
possibility of such a result — remote as it may be — sug- 
gests the notion that, in this movement, possibly we are 
not rising higher in the scale of civilization. Perhaps we 
are sinking backward, nearer an older condition of some 
of the race in this respect ; — sometimes, perhaps figura- 
tively, called barbarism. The notion of social indepen- 
dence — although a contradiction in terms — is attractive 
to the imagination, especially with the young and inex- 
perienced ; — but practically it does not appear to wear 
well, in ordinary human intercourse. 

There would be nothing wonderful in this aspect of the 
tendency of this self-called reform, even if it shall prove 
to be accurately characterized by what has been said. It 
could hardly be deemed singular, to Americans in this 
respect. How many of our proposed reforms, and 
" modern improvements " in social ideas, morals, and 
manners, consist chiefly in repeating the trial of experi- 
ments many times exploded ; or in attempting to break 
down, as useless or tyrannical (because not compre- 
hended, or because misunderstood, by reason of ignor- 



80 R UMINA TIONS. 

ing their history and purpose) ideas or habits which have 
perhaps cost centuries of sacrifice and self-denial, thou- 
sands of lives and millions of treasure, to establish and 
ingrain with the mental and moral fibre of socialized 
human nature ! 

As society moves onward in its march toward refine- 
ment, and toward higher, nobler, and purer aims of enjoy- 
ment, the relations of men and women to each other 
obviously must become more artificial, complex, and 
intricate ; — with larger capacity for ensuring reciprocal 
happiness and varied delights. Social interdependence, 
although it involve some loss of natural liberty, on either 
side, is yet conducive to reciprocal enjoyment, and should 
supersede the natural tendency to covet isolated freedom. 
Secondary and relative ideas steadily become more im- 
portant in social esteem than those purely primary or 
individual. In attempting to sweep away, as immaterial 
or fraudulent rubbish, the legal and social fictions, that 
lie at the artificial and secular foundation of the marriage 
institution — as it has stood for thousands of years — hasty, 
one-ideaed reformers are often little aware of the fragile 
condition of the superstructure they may leave, and how 
liable it may be to topple, and some day fall headlong. 

When, however, the reformers work is done ; when 
women shall have exploded the hallowed legal fiction that 
the husband is the head-of-the-family ; when, as a natural 
consequence of a nominal divided sovereignty — with 
equality in all power and authority between husband and 
wife — rebellion and license shall become the chronic con- 
dition of children, within every household ; when the 
policy of law, aiming at a unity of interest, by an identity 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 8 1 

of person and property, in married couples, shall be 
among forgotten things ; when even the natural pride of 
founding and perpetuating a family name, with its accum- 
ulation of traditions, nobleness, refinements, and ameni- 
ties— one of the strongest peculiar motives in the human 
breast, as well as one of the greatest factors, when judi- 
ciously employed, in civilizing and moralizing mankind — 
shall have dwindled or perished, what can we have as a 
substitute ? While the assaults of advanced thinkers are 
apparently weakening our faith in the sublime consolations 
of a hereafter-life ; while the pressure of the complicated 
and bewildering problems, cares, and troubles of this 
superactive condition of our modern world — upheaving 
political strata, and demolishing social landmarks — is 
too great for the over-anxious minds of many, even 
among the strongest, it would be a pity if any wholesome 
stimulant to the pride of nobleness in this life should be 
taken away, or seriously diminished. If the fabric of 
society, as now constituted, be really in danger, we should 
at least pause long enough to find assurance of something 
worthy to replace it, before its foundations shall be seri- 
ously impaired. 

Perhaps the most appalling consequence now apparent, 
of this confounding of the nature of man and woman, 
which threatens the peace and order of families as well as 
of modern civil society itself, is the impending possibility 
of the extension of full citizen -suffrage to all women. By 
one of the strangest perversities of human endeavor, this 
stupendous change is strenuously urged upon the ground 
of its inevitably purifying tendency ! It appears to be a 
necessary moral equipment of the idealistic reformer of 



82 . RUMINATIONS. 

our time, that he shall be either blind to the dominant 
instincts and impulses of human nature, or that he shall 
wilfully ignore their forces in his more daring speculative 
projects. In the consideration of this matter, the omnipo- 
tence for evil of at least one human passion seems to be 
left wholly out of view. 

Hitherto the greatest common danger to which the 
purity of the exercise of the elective franchise, in large 
complex and growing communities, has been exposed in 
a free country, confessedly has been always the power of 
money. The advocates of " universal " woman-suffrage 
appear to overlook the fact that the influence of money 
for tempting men into political corruption may be far less 
in force than a well-known power of infatuation, which 
brooks no rival in its appetite for treason and strata- 
gems — to say nothing of " spoils " — as history too sorrow- 
fully proves. When Paris was a divine arbitrator, he 
refused both power and glory in order to accept Helen's 
beauty as an insuperable bribe for his judicial corruption. 
Since proverbially Love conquers all things, and in his 
court — as now in politics — almost every wrong is right if 
it be successful, let those who most honor womanhood 
beware. A mistake in enlarging the area of suffrage is 
one of those political blunders most nearly impossible to 
rectify. The history of American politics proves this 
conclusively. 

As George Savile (Marquis of Halifax) wisely said : — 
" Women have more strength in their looks than we have 
in our laws, and more power by their tears than we have 
by our arguments." The question then comes to this : 
Are statesmen prepared to add one more uncontrollable, 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 83 

and perhaps unscrupulous, element to the already appar- 
ently insoluble problem of pure elections, in large and 
complex communities ? At present this suggestion may 
seem to savor of superabundant precaution — or at least of 
want of faith in the infallibility of American womanhood. 
But what student of history can shut his eyes to the 
hazards involved by this untried experiment in democracy 
in our compacted cities, when party-spirit may be running 
high and when ambition for individual aggrandizement 
may be more secure even than now, in the reckless, 
unhallowed, employment of the means of achieving the 
possession of power and place ? 

One argument in favor of absolute woman-suffrage — as 
a right despite inexpediency — most often urged as con- 
clusive, runs thus : — Women are taxed ; it is an American 
axiom that taxation necessitates the recognition of a right 
of representation ; representation can be secured only by 
suffrage of the person taxed ; wherefore women have a 
moral as well as political — and should be no longer de- 
barred from a legal — right to vote in the same manner as 
men. It would be difficult to find more mistakes and 
fallacies in any single plausible proposition. First, women 
are not taxed — although the property some own is some- 
times taxed, in the same manner as that of corporations, 
trustees, guardians, executors, infants, and lunatics. If a 
right to vote necessarily resulted from the fact of paying 
taxes on property owned or possessed by every one, then 
all the above classes would be entitled alike to the ballot. 
Besides if voting be a right, chiefly growing out of the 
fact of a burden of taxation imposed upon property, com- 
paratively few women would share it. Moreover, it would 



84 R UMINA TIONS. 

seem that in justice this voting power should be also pro- 
portioned, in some manner and to some extent, to the 
amount of taxes paid. This would give control of the 
government to the rich ; and the mere ballot would lose 
its value to others. 

A singular paradox, however, seems to control this 
movement. Woman is, by public, opinion, apparently 
supposed to show her best intellectual title to suffrage 
by her good sense in not wishing for it. There is a latent 
intuition among the average citizens of the sex, that seems 
to tell the wisest of them they would surely lose more 
than they could possibly gain by exercising such a func- 
tion ; that they would both add to their public obligations 
and impair their social privileges by the possession of it. 
Besides, being conservative, by nature and habit, they 
hesitate by instinct to enter a vortex which would begin 
by turning upside down a primal basis of order in society 
that has prevailed since our first parents met in Paradise, 
and might lead to social chaos or worse. 

Threatening, therefore, as the aspect of this question 
may sometimes appear, it is not worth while ever to 
despair. In the long run, human nature, in its upper as 
well as lower traits, is sure to be self-vindicated. Human 
life, whether social or individual, is proverbially full of 
extraordinary mutations. While a few, whether well or 
ill-advised, are striving to lift up the many, the mass, 
through sloth or love of pleasure, or the mad thirst for 
notoriety, or the power of selfish or enthusiastic leaders, 
are continually exposed to being pushed in a downward 
direction. But all trust, in their hearts, that error is for 
but a day — truth for all time. The misfortune of all this, 



CONCERNING WOMEN. 85 

however, is still sustained by ourselves. It lies chiefly 
in the fact, that oftentimes one or more generations — 
through such experiments — must suffer, and to some ex- 
tent waste their existence, by being cut off from that com- 
fort and joy in life which otherwise might easily be 
obtained. Meanwhile the noisy enthusiasts of the com- 
munity are making a false eclat for themselves, by destroy- 
ing holy temples and battering into pieces divine images, 
whose purpose and beauty they cannot see. Like savages 
they mistake them for something of evil import, fit only to 
be demolished. Before the renaissance comes, however, 
the defrauded contemporaries of the false reformer are 
beyond the reach of its amenities. Truth survives, but 
the victims of error have perished miserably. 






TOUCHES OF NATURE 



Man is a strange animal, and makes strange use 
Of his own nature. 

Byron, 

Special Human Nature. 



HE adage that human nature is always the 
same — even when individually considered — 
seems to involve a serious fallacy. However 
true it may be in general, it is misleading, if 
not for the most part false, in the sense it is popularly 
understood. The essential elements of our common hu- 
man nature are indeed substantially identical in every age 
and clime of the world. Yet the practical revelations of 
that nature, as they appear to ordinary observation, are 
so far dependent upon traditionary rights, privileges, cus- 
toms, and duties — upon temporary motives, social circum- 
stances, and general environment — that, both in impulse 
and in action, it at least appears to be radically variable. 
Indeed men's conduct, in matters involving a vital moral 
principle, at one period of history will be found to be 
sometimes precisely the reverse of what it has been, un- 
der an apparently similar condition or emergency, in the 

86 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. %J 

same civil society, at an earlier date. Yet at each time, 
contemporaneously it may be regarded as equally fit, just, 
and honorable. 

This paradoxical fact is sometimes quite puzzling, or 
indeed shocking, to the astute or inquisitive youthful 
mind. Neither public nor private teachers can be too 
careful to avoid shaking the foundations of adolescent 
conscience by openly or covertly confounding the intrin- 
sically good or bad — right or wrong, proper or improper, 
just or unjust — with that which only conventionally, fac- 
titiously, or even accidentally may be so regarded from 
time to time. 

Moreover, we talk glibly of what we call human nature, 
as if it were a specific identity, susceptible of being meas- 
ured, or reckoned like a fixed quantity ; but it would 
help us more, in comprehending the social and political 
enigmas of daily life, if we would bear in mind more fre- 
quently how far its very character, as often suggested, 
may be radically transformed by circumstances. 

Strange as it may appear, there are in fact certain de- 
finable phases of human nature that always should be 
considered separately, when we pass judgment upon, or 
forecast, the conduct of men or communities. 

First, there is a species of local human nature, which is 
full of special traits, resulting apparently from mere place 
of birth or education, local habits and interests. Then, 
beyond mere individuals, there is a kind of social human 
nature, which is developed by association and greatly 
modifies merely individual characteristics. Again, there 
is what may be called a national human nature, which 
owes its growth to the exercise of one's love of his 



88 fi UM1NA TIO ATS. 

native or perhaps his adopted country, and his sympathy 
with the passions or interests of his immediate fellow-men 
in their political capacity. Finally, there seems to be even 
an international human nature, which crops out in the 
patriotic pride we feel for our own country, its particular 
interests, advantages, and power, above the rest of the 
habitable globe, whenever, in peace or war, we come in 
contact, or contrast ourselves, with men or communities, 
identified with the soil, climate, laws, customs, passions, 
or interests of other nations. 



Worry ; or, The Tret of Fret. 

It is a familiar observation that no ordinary bad habit 
of mind is more unwise or useless than self- worrying. 
The matters usually causing this kind of mental disqui- 
etude, if at all practical, concern either others or one's 
self. If they affect others, a man can do only his duty 
as he comprehends it. This being found and done, it is 
common philosophy to be content and accept the result 
as inevitable, without regrets, longings, or self-reproach 
for shortcomings. If, however, the troublesome matters 
concern only one's self, there is still less cause for this 
fruitless discontent. At least one should reflect of how 
little importance such matters are, for the most part, in 
the economy of the universe — whether they be done well 
or ill, or not done at all — and how insignificant in a large 
view, and to every one else, is anything that pertains to 
one's self, and how wasteful even of self-staying power is 
all idle fretting about them. 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 89 

Probably the open secret of this habit — so persistent in 
spite of its being so contrary to reason — is that the things 
worried about are seen in such undue proportions, be- 
cause they are too near the mind. Like any small object 
very close to the eye, they obscure other things a little 
distant and take on a consequence they do not deserve. 
When we are in a deep valley, a mole-hill may hide a 
distant mountain. When time, or the occurrence of some 
other matter of greater interest, has adapted us to the 
trouble before us — so that it more nearly assumes its true 
significance- — our anxiety diminishes or ceases altogether. 
But if we act while under such a mental disturbance we 
are liable to act foolishly. Undue anxiety is the ordinary 
vice of a shallow nature and implies poverty in the posses- 
sion of patience. 

One available method, of putting down this tendency to 
unreasonable fretting over personal disappointment or 
apprehended evil, is to recall how many of our dearest 
friends have more real cause to worry than ourselves. 
While thus discovering that we are comparatively happy, 
we may be stirred to act somewhat in relieving their 
troubles. And as nearly all worry comes from excessive 
egoism, we can sometimes find its best cure in active 
altruism. That is the preacher's view. 

This teasing plague of the mind is so little in accord- 
ance with common-sense that it is matter of wonder it 
prevails so frequently among reasonable people. For 
example, there is the commonly exaggerated fear of one's 
own death. If this were confined to those who, from 
consciousness of their mortal sins, are fearful of wrath to 
come, the dread of the day of reckoning would be natural 



90 A UMltfA T/OJVS. 

enough, and perhaps wholesome. Or if the germ of this 
apprehension were merely a shrinking from common pain 
and suffering — as the necessary accompaniment of the 
passage from life to death — or from the agony of separa- 
tion from all those we hold dear, one might understand that 
such ideas were pertinent to our instinct of self-preserva- 
tion, and necessary in nature's economy for preserving 
the race. 

Of course nature revolts at the idea of death, so long 
as health, strength, and the normal conditions of continu- 
ing life prevail. But what is gained by a painful anxiety 
lest death should overtake one unexpectedly ? It seems 
as unwise as it is useless. After proper precaution against 
rationally probable disaster, all further anxiety is idle and 
works against the end desired. It really unfits one to 
meet any mischance when it shall occur, inasmuch as it 
takes away both the spontaneity of confidence, and that 
fertility of resource in trouble which is largely the out- 
come of a determination to achieve success in our 
undertakings. 

When a man is not in expectation of anything worse 
than his present condition, and is at least hopeful of a 
happier life than the one he is called on to give up, it 
seems unphilosophical, to say the least, that he should 
tremble and grieve at the suggestion of the approach of 
the end of the inferior condition. At the proper time, as 
Bacon says, it is as natural for a man to die as for a child 
to be born. This time may be deferred for years, or it may 
be briefly limited by a thousand accidental circumstances. 
It can hardly be supposed that one who looks confidently 
forward to a career of endless enjoyment among immor- 



touches of nature. 91 

tals can dread his translation to such a sublime and 
attractive state of existence. Nay, this suggestion would 
seem to be an impeachment of his steadfastness in such 
religious faith. But if one believe that with death ends 
all that consciousness which is associated with the body 
and the life here (an opinion possibly more common 
among thoughtful men than is known or even suspected 
by those who have not of late rigidly scrutinized some of 
their neighbor's real convictions) why should a man 
trouble himself with what he cannot prevent happening, 
and which when it does occur will leave him without a 
pain or a regret, or even a memory ? 

Obviously there can be no real sense of loss to one who 
will know it not. Why should one fear what he can never 
realize ? If death itself were a protracted transitional 
process, it might justify all our habitual dread of it. But 
it is neither short like life, nor endless like eternity. It is 
not even brief, like an instant of time. Death is in itself 
merely a word, descriptive of a conceivable something. 
The essential idea of it is, however, nothing but a fact to 
be known only to others. It is and always must be quite 
beyond the reach of our own personal consciousness here. 

An illustration has led away from the theme. The 
habit deprecated is that common infirmity of worrying 
over ordinary past or anticipated ills, small as well as 
great. 

There are, as already suggested, two familiar ways of 
meeting unpleasant coming events. The one is appar- 
ently as wise as the other is silly. They seem, however, 
to be, quite frequently, the choice of temperament, rather 
than of reason. The vicious way, however, may be over- 



§2 R UMINA T/OATS. 

come by self-discipline, as it is merely the result of a 
mischievous propensity, which grows apace, unless sub- 
dued, or subjected to reason. 

I once knew intimately a man of this evil temper, who, 
by his friends, was said to be, like many others, continu- 
ally looking on the dark side of things. His present 
enjoyment was usually clouded by fear of coming evil. 
When misfortune actually overtook him or his friends, he 
was liable to the reproach of insensibility. But — like 
cowards who are said to die many deaths — he had really 
gone through with all the agony of suffering from the 
mischief incurred many times before it had actually hap- 
pened ! Instead of hanging " between a smile and a 
tear," he was always on the side of the tear, but so accus- 
tomed to the element that he was seldom in danger of 
being overwhelmed by it. In fact, by continually keeping 
the tone of his mind and heart in one lugubrious strain, 
he had lost all spontaneity — even of grief — and had appar- 
ently become either devoid of, or callous to, all natural 
feeling. 

This man's wife was his opposite in all these things. 
She was not, however, frivolous or even light-hearted. 
Although she appeared like a stream of sunshine, diffus- 
ing cheerfulness wherever she went, yet one who knew her 
thoroughly might have found no lack of innate sadness 
in her nature. Nevertheless — perhaps from the very 
breadth and profoundness of her character — she never 
anticipated misfortune, or dwelt upon past calamity ; but 
resolutely accepted things as they happened. Conse- 
quently she was always natural and spontaneous, fresh in 
her impulses, genuine and hearty in her sympathies. She 



TOUCHES OF NATURE, 93 

wept with those who wept, and laughed with those who 
laughed ; — ever appearing bright and happy, or otherwise, 
as the passing hour permitted. 

Every act of the mind, we are taught, costs an expendi- 
ture of nerve force — a loss of so much power — to be 
supplied by retaxing the recuperative resources of our 
nature. It is a draft upon a capital far from inexhausti- 
ble, and of easily definable limits. In this view it is 
painful to reflect how prodigal we are of our vital inheri- 
tance, and how much of it we waste by sheer bad self- 
management. 

While one constant drain upon our reservoir is the 
common habit of fretting over the irreparable or the in- 
evitable, another like foolish extravagance, in the way of 
dissipating brain or spirit power, lies in that impertinent 
curiosity which — through imaginative speculation, or by 
silly consultations with absurd mountebanks and oracles 
of many different forms — strives to penetrate the supposi- 
titious mysteries of the inscrutable. Sometimes more 
preposterous than this inquest itself is a habit of help- 
lessly deploring uncertain, though possible, evils, which a 
morbid fancy, so stimulated, will suggest. 

Indeed it has seemed not unfrequently to some as if 
even religion itself — designed divinely as it is to be the 
great consoler of the bruised spirit in its most trying afflic- 
tions — had been perverted often into an engine of im- 
mense proportions for mischief, through this very waste of 
the power to act, and to suffer in the real business of life. 
We lose greatly, it is feared, by occupying so much of 
our thoughts and time with reference to that future state 
pf which necessarily — from our limited powers and the 



94 * UMINA TIONS. 

scantiness of Revelation — we know so little, in compari- 
son with its infiniteness, as to count for almost absolutely 
nothing. It would not be irrational to believe that per- 
haps the days of this world might be happier, and its 
work better done, if more of its temporary residents 
would ponder — as some already do — the absolute gain of 
making a profitable use of the present ; — with only a 
judicious, and far less anxious, forecast of the remote 
and unsearchable future. 

The Philosophy of Self-Indulgence. 

The love of ease — or, as one might say, laziness — and 
the love of luxury are instincts born with most men. By 
the energetic and the wise, a full gratification of such 
desires — however easily attainable — is usually deferred, 
through some higher or better impulse, until their indul- 
gence may be allowed, without prejudice to more lofty 
purposes or to the valid claims of others. But with the 
ordinary mind, whatever will regale an appetite is generally 
grasped as soon as it comes within reach, and is used 
without stint. Like most of the tendencies, good or bad, 
of our common nature, also, this inclination to yield to 
these desires grows merely by involuntary encouragement, 
or even by simple sufferance. 

However, an actual giving way to the pleasures of 
ordinary self-gratification, and perhaps of pampering our 
inclination in that direction, often seems, to ourselves, to 
be only relative and not absolute. That which at one 
period of life, or in one circle of society, or to one indi- 
vidual, or among people of one generation, may be 



TOUCHES OF NATURE, 95 

reckoned extravagant sloth, or wasteful luxury, at an- 
other time or place, or with a different social group, or by 
another person, may indeed appear to be almost a 
necessity. 

Yet only a few are controlled by an honest, thoughtful 
judgment herein ; or compel themselves to live according 
to a special standard of their real approval. We are all, 
more or less (as every one knows), creatures of custom, 
even in those matters which most nearly and chiefly con- 
cern our very selves. Sometimes we seducingly call this 
weak surrender to self-indulgence, a progress toward 
some more perfect state of being — as it were, a mortal 
Nirvana ; but in truth it is often only the disguised 
atrophy of all natural bent of the mind toward superior 
things. 

Nevertheless, not only through an amiable concession 
to the contagion of custom, or to the allurement of social 
sympathy in pleasure, do we abandon our Spartan ideals, 
but also by a selfishness-in-idleness we sink into the mire 
of slothful ease, and dwarf our capacity for something 
better. In general American society, however, most 
virile people are constantly busy. Idleness among us is 
also exceptionally deteriorating, as a method of life. 
Whoever would be wholly idle must be practically 
isolated. 

Few men or women of the common stamp — not wholly 
limp or flaccid in temperament — are fit to live either idle 
or alone. Even household cares are better than none. 
While being the head of a family has a constant tendency 
to warm the heart and to expand its sympathies, it is a 
common observation that the fact of living apart, even in 



g6 R UMINA TIONS. 

city-life, works in the opposite direction. Both men and 
women are liable to deteriorate in this way. They are 
prone to become selfish in proportion as they are with- 
drawn, and become exempt, from the minute concerns 
and responsibilities of domesticity. If they have no 
business duties or affairs to counteract such belittling 
influences as empty egoism begets, their pathway in life 
becomes exceedingly narrow, and shut in from any broad 
view of the great or profound interests of their fellow- 
creatures. A sagacious man said of such an one : — "He 
carries his world and his family under his hat." 

Many of this sort find nothing to do besides feeding, 
clothing, and amusing themselves ; — which last not un- 
commonly they do largely by finding fault with the 
doings, or fancied shortcomings, of their better-employed 
neighbors. Almost unavoidably they become fastidious, 
exacting, discontented, censorious, and illiberal, or unjust 
in all their social opinions. Each one revolves in a small 
orbit, while a very imperfectly developed ego is its axial 
centre. This is sometimes true of the upright or wholly 
well-meaning. But if there be any whose natural inclina- 
tions are evil, this " devil's workshop " — selfishness-in- 
idleness — by a paradox of its own, will easily turn out 
engines of mischief sufficient to put the most quiet 
neighborhood in an uproar, or to set a whole community 
by the ears. 

Social life, by its interchangeable vicissitudes, is fertile 
enough in petty discomforts, yet it has a thousand vents 
for their escape. But individual loneliness commonly 
tends both to corrode and debase the temper, for want of 
either sympathy or social clistractiQns, Probably it is 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 97 

not too much to claim, as among the stronger incentives 
to the formation of family-life, the fact that it affords the 
charms of privacy and seclusion, without the terrors and 
deteriorations that attend a life of isolation from the 
business and sympathies of the common world. 

It is needless to say how poor our most coveted pleas- 
ures become, when not subordinate to intellectual restraint 
and guidance. Whether we eat, drink, walk, travel, play, 
laugh, read, or talk, it is a great gain if we may enjoy 
rationally, and not simply gratify a simple inclination or 
an animal instinct. In the ordinary matter of eating and 
drinking, a large portion of men, without stopping to 
taste, merely devour their food in order to satisfy a crav- 
ing appetite. The Roman glutton had more sense in his 
method ; — gross as it was. To feed delicately, or with 
discrimination — mingling pleasant conversation with 
deliberation at table — is the habit of comparatively few, 
in our country in the daily routine of their active lives, 
even among those who have full opportunity of choice. 
The same trite observation is true of other physical, as 
well as mental or social, enjoyments of the passing hour. 

The longer one lives, the more thoroughly he must be- 
come satisfied that the tongue, acting merely as an organ 
of taste, is an indiscreet, if not wholly untrustworthy door- 
keeper of the stomach. As every child knows, many 
deadly poisons are sweet, and the most dangerous waters 
may not only look innocent, but sometimes relish as 
refreshingly, as if drawn from the purest spring. The 
police-duties entrusted to the tongue alone are often 
badly performed. Even the teeth do this work much 
better. 

7 



98 R UMINA TIONS, 

The Bohemian — so-called — having both imagination 
and susceptibility, with an exaggerated love of common 
self-indulgence — is usually a malcontent in any well- 
regulated community. He is constantly bumping his 
sensitive skull against his artificial limitations. He 
opposes what is generally deemed good for the greater 
number, and prefers what is best, in his opinion, for the 
very small class of which he is a self-elected member. 
The Philistine contrarily — being realistic in tempera- 
ment, matter-of-fact in mental nature, and objective in 
all things — sees his boundaries. Knowing them to be 
morally impassable, with cool tact and astute policy he 
makes a graceful concession to social necessity. He 
kisses the chain he is compelled to wear and easily keeps 
himself within the bounds society prescribes for him ; — 
sometimes making a profit, as well as a convenience, of 
an artificial virtue. Although each may be a mere volup- 
tuary, after his kind, yet the latter will fatten while the 
first may starve. 

Restraint, moderation — ne quid nimis — and even 
method in pleasures have countless other, and more 
estimable, advantages over headlong self-indulgence. 
The enjoyment of life may be also much enhanced by a 
habit of constantly recognizing and acknowledging 
present good. It is wise, when not suffering any imme- 
diate grievance, to inhale the joy of every pleasant 
breath in life— however intermittent they be —as it passes ; 
instead of putting off our attention to its full recognition, 
until a consummation of the event of the hour. Perhaps 
too it is well to strive to keep constantly before the mind 
the idea that, whenever we are really happy, nothing is, 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 99 

will, or can be more beautiful, good, or desirable, than 
what is then within our own immediate control. 



Happiness. 

Although by common opinion earthly happiness con- 
sists chiefly in self-content, it obviously varies in degree 
from the somnolent sloth of the lowest animal to the 
triumphant satisfaction of a conquering hero who has 
saved his country from impending ruin, or an ecstatic 
parting soul reaching out to receive the proffered embrace 
of eternal bliss. The larger a man's capacity for intellec- 
tual or spiritual enjoyment, the more difficult it will be for 
him to satisfy the demands of his nature and to attain 
that self-complacency which is essential to his complete 
felicity. 

This may be a too purely abstract view of the matter. 
Perhaps in order to be quite trustworthy it ought to be 
supplemented by a suggestion of the personal traits of 
evenness of temper and what is known as a naturally 
cheerful disposition. 

But to all methods of attaining continuing happiness, 
of a high order, by personal effort some other specific 
things are essential. The first in importance is, that one 
should have a purpose in life, adapted to one's nature 
and circumstances ; — with due recognition of one's limi- 
tations, as well as capabilities and obligations. One must 
have also a clear self-approval of one's own aims and 
conduct. This involves bravery as a necessary element ; — 
a courage that says to a man's self, nil time nisi male 
facere. The rest may be summed up, as a preacher would 



I OO R UMINA TIONS. 

say, in the expression, the discharge of duty ; — that is 
obedience to, and compliance with, the laws of God, 
Nature, and society, as well as the performance of what 
obligations a man owes specially to himself. 

Most of the unhappiness of life, however, comes from 
an inability to discover, or a neglect to recognize, the 
truth that only by obedience to law in its universal sense 
— far higher than custom or statute — and not by the fol- 
lowing of will or inclination, shall we find the true clue 
that alone can guide us unharmed through the devious or 
intricate ways and among the vicissitudes of our mortal 
career. 

Radically different as they are, yet often, in common 
speech, and even in our thoughts, are happiness and pleas- 
ure confounded. Writers are not wanting who contend 
for their absolute identity. Happiness, however, is more 
sober, while pleasure is more exhilarating. Pleasure 
usually springs from the concentration of the attention 
and faculties of mind or body, or both, for the time being, 
upon a single purpose or object, which is immediate and 
specific. Happiness, in a liberal sense, grows out of 
content with things generally that influence us ; — involving 
usually a more comprehensive survey of surroundings 
and a more calm spirit. Happiness, as its verbal root ap- 
pears to indicate, rests much on good fortune. It implies 
conscious satisfaction with one's condition, full approval 
of the present, absence of hopeless regret for the past, or 
of apprehension of evil for the future. It is quiet, 
equable, and but little agitated by undue expectation. 
Pleasure on the contrary is full of anticipation. It is 
joyous, though with interruptions of disquietude. It feeds 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 10 1 

largely upon hope — centring its ventures a good deal in 
the future. Pleasure belongs more to a sensitive tempera- 
ment, to the body, and to the passions. It is stormy, too, 
and apparently comes and goes oftentimes as it were, in 
waves, great or small, of irregular succession. 

Happiness seems to grow up gradually in the mind, yet 
is dependent for its sure poise upon that equanimous 
temperament called a happy disposition, as its unconscious 
centre. The heart, as the seat of enjoyment, of course 
plays the largest part in both pleasure and happiness — 
standing between the mind and the animal nature. Hap- 
piness often finds its accomplishment in present ease and 
leisure, or in contemplation, or in the orderly discharge 
of duty, or in the conferring of pleasure upon others. 
Pleasure delights us through exhilarating occupation ; — 
as by excelling in games of physical strength, skill, or 
chance, and by what pleases the sense, or amuses or 
distracts the mind from care or thought. Although both 
are inclined to nourish selfishness, still pleasure is more 
reckless of others' rights. While happiness often includes 
pleasure, yet pleasure seldom, merely in itself, involves 
true happiness. 

Who is happy ? Perhaps almost every one might be, if 
outward circumstances and inward self-conduct alone 
could produce happiness at will. Yet nearly all are sup- 
posed to be more or less miserable. The really happy 
man or woman is said to be almost exceptional. The 
truth seems to be, that it is not always an affair of the 
will, even where there is no cause for discontent. Men 
of the finest capacities of reason and imagination, in ap- 
parent health, have often found life, even without adverse 



1 02 R UMINA TIONS. 

circumstances, almost insupportable. It would be hazard- 
ing little to say that some of the most wretched lives have 
been those of men and women possessed of superior intel- 
lectual endowments with most other worldly advantages. 

We all recognize a phase of the understanding, distin- 
guishable from the reasoning powers, or imagination, gen- 
erally called common-sense, also a species of physico- 
moral temperament, usually characterized as animal spirits. 
When these are combined in one person, we have what is 
called a happy disposition. This equable kind of nature 
finds its happiness as a matter of course. It does not 
forecast evil, it expects everything to be as it should be. 
If the past prove otherwise, it wastes no energy over what 
it regards as having been inevitable. 

This is not like the happiness that comes from the exer- 
cise of either religion or philosophy, nor even from a self- 
gratulation over the performance of duty, or the practice 
of virtue in self-denial. Neither does it resemble the 
pleasure growing out of the achievement of the objects of 
ambition with a successful appeal to the plaudits of the 
world. Nor is it like the happiness that sometimes ac- 
companies the possession of power, or the practical exer- 
cise of commanding intellect. 

Perhaps if we would look for the verification of what, 
in the common sentiment of mankind, is reckoned ordi- 
nary happiness, we shall be more likely to find it un- 
alloyed as we descend, rather than as we rise, in the social 
scale. Contentment absolute, irrespective of the extent 
or character of what is possessed, seems to be the sole 
recognized key to the treasure. " Happy as a king," or 
as " a lord/' although a childish phrase (meaning idleness 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. IO3 

and freedom from want or care) shows in what direction 
the common mind idealizes. It could, however, only ap- 
ply to brief periods or moments, and not to material parts 
of a lifetime, even if it were as true as supposed by those 
who utter the thoughtless words. u Happy as a fool," 
would be a much truer expression of the realization of 
what is commonly understood by the term happy, when 
thus applied. 

It would be deplorable indeed, if it were true, that 
ignorance monopolizes the happiness of the world, or if 
old Matthew Prior rightly had said : 

From ignorance our comfort flows ; 
Those only wretched are the wise. 

If so, then verily would it be folly to be wise, as Gray 
also puts it in his familiar paradox. 

The young are happy in their insensibility to the in- 
evitable sorrow that is in store for them. As they cannot 
foresee, therefore they naturally hope, and live buoyed 
up by cheerful expectation, happy in their pleasures. The 
older are not so blind. Guided by experience, observa- 
tion, and reflection, they anticipate too accurately what 
may happen. Although not sustained by an eyeless hope, 
yet through calculation, they more accurately forecast 
the future, and calmly prepare to meet its obstacles. This 
is wisdom for them. But it might be disastrous if the 
young could see clearly what is often so plain to their 
elders. Not yet knowing how to meet it, they certainly 
would lose some of their courageous energy. Perhaps 
they might incline early to a despondency that would 



1 04 R UMINA TIONS. 

check the advance of the race, or at least put a stop to 
some of the best work going on in the world. 

Our Illusions. 

Who does not know that most of the varying views we 
entertain of actual things in this life, or of possibilities in 
a future, owe much of their contrariety as well as of their 
charm to the influence of the illusions we accept or cher- 
ish ? To their power too we must attribute the larger 
part of the inconsistencies of conduct or opinion scattered 
so liberally through our lives. These hallucinations are 
inwoven with our mental and moral fibre, and closely 
attendant upon our incipient growth of mind or enlarge- 
ment of mental vision. We are all overcharged with the 
illusions of self-delusion. It is not easy to say how much 
we are indebted, for our intellectual headway through 
life, to a natural expansion of the understanding, and how 
much to a mere sloughing off, as time advances, of 
the deceptions which self-love, influential circumstances, 
or other chance-teachers, may have practised involuntarily 
upon the ingenuous credulity of our youth. 

During early years our life is full of petty misappre- 
hension. We are prone to take everything upon trust, or 
to assume that appearances, as we purblindly interpret 
them, are real and true. As we grow we largely delude 
ourselves by our own hasty misconceptions. This private 
hoard of error is also liberally enhanced by the mistaken 
policy of unwise instructors, or the officious suggestion of 
ignorant or ill-advised friends and acquaintances. The 
mind being not quite capable of comprehending the full 



TOUCHES OF NATURE, IC>5 

truth in many matters, yet curious and eager for explana- 
tion of seeming phenomena, the readiest fiction at hand 
is commonly furnished to us. We take it too greedily to 
question it closely. 

As the understanding matures (and many ordinary 
illusions, having played their part, lose their utility in the 
economy of nature) we begin to purge the soul of rubbish 
and to endeavor to sweep away the drift-wood or impuri- 
ties that obstruct or roil the broadening stream of our 
intellectual life. Often however our misconceptions are 
endeared to us by some of the sweetest associations of 
happy days in a guileless childhood. We part from these 
with painful reluctance, and they very often leave an 
aching void in the sentimental part of our nature never to 
be filled. The delusions of our judgment are more obsti- 
nate, and, however, thoroughly unmasked, quit us still 
more unwillingly. 

We may, however, and many do, fill their vacant places 
with the more virile fibre of tested truth. This process 
continues, in the liberal and fecund mind, throughout life, 
until we have long passed our grand climacteric, and 
sometimes even until sterile old age creeps on apace. 
How far we shall have gone during a normal life, in this 
endless progress of finding out verity, will of course de- 
pend more especially upon each man's self. The space 
will be measured by his opportunities, his labor in sin- 
cerity, his courage, earnestness, or enthusiasm, his inde- 
pendence of popular opinion, and his self-sacrifice in 
searching for reality — at the expense of convenience or 
comfort — and in facing absolute fact, however repulsive 
or gruel it may appear to t>e t 



1 06 J? UMINA TIONS. 

Happy the man, in a certain inferior sense, whose body 
lives only while his pleasing illusions continue. Unhappy 
indeed is he who outlives them all without finding a 
solid basis of philosophic truth, upon which, in the serenity 
of a disillusioned soul, he may calmly contemplate, in a 
large way, the candid austerity of Nature and the eternal 
fitness of things. 

But our illusions by no means continue the same. 
They change with our time of life. Those of childhood, 
youth, manhood, maturity, middle age, declining years, 
and old age, are commonly no less complete, the one than 
the other. Yet is each usually unlike the other in many 
conditions ; sometimes in their tenacity of endurance, 
oftentimes in their power to influence the temper, the 
passions, the will, or the judgment. Generally, however, 
they are special and peculiar ; as well as adapted to each 
stage of our existence. They are usually born with, or 
nourished by, the events, interests, passions, or sympa- 
thies of the particular period of life through which we 
are passing. 

Besides, the unquestioned faith of one period, when 
dissolved, is usually counted a folly during another, even 
by the same person. More especially, however, is this true 
when we sit in judgment upon the conduct of others. 
For instance : an old man smiles loftily at the exaggerated 
importance a young man attaches to some petty triumph 
of the hour ; while the young man laughs knowingly 
when he sees an octogenarian infatuated by the measured 
caresses of a simulated youthful affection. Literature 
finds its largest commodity in illustration of the more 
frequent, as well as the profounder, illusions of life, It 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. I07 

shows through its prismatic glass how they arise, color, 
and fade in regular succession from infancy to age. 

The delusions of civil society — even more deep-seated 
and enduring than those of individuals — furnish ample 
food for the genius of the liberal-minded historian. They 
affect alike nations, communities, parties, families. They 
appear as superstitions, fetiches, shibboleths, political 
hallucinations, or traditional fascinations, that long defy 
even the demonstration of common-sense to dispel them. 
The divine right of kings, witchcraft, and countless politi- 
cal tricks and devices that have had their day of deluding 
mankind, each in turn, illustrate the adage of Oxenstierna : 
— with how little wisdom the world is governed. In the 
early history of a people these delusions seem to be com- 
monly necessary in order to form a bond of fellowship 
and to compel a coherence of the body politic. However, 
as any civil community advances in intelligence, unity, 
homogeneousness, and independence, it gradually shuffles 
them off, just as individuals do their personal illusions, 
during their growth from infancy to maturity. 

Most of us pass, as is sadly proverbial, through the last 
gate, opening the way that leads rapidly toward senility, 
with a loss of most of the delicious illusions that once 
charmed our youthful mind, and have oftentimes con- 
tinued to hallow our human nature, even until middle life 
was wellnigh spent. Yet do w r e also sometimes carry late 
in our journey, closely clinging to us, some bitter super- 
stition or dogmatic delusion, we have never had either the 
leisure, the strength of will, the clearness of judgment, or 
the moral courage to w r restle with so effectually as entirely 
to shake off its insidious embrace, 



1 08 J? UMINA TJONS. 

When, however, old age shall come upon us in full mas- 
tery, our remnant of life will be calm and content or 
unquiet and worried, in proportion as we have, or have 
not, at last got anchored in a sea where truth has taken 
the place of painful delusion ; — where the shores of time 
are plainly seen, and no mirage of either beauty or horror 
longer cheats the vision. Happy will it be for us if then 
we are able to discriminate between what may and what 
may not be known to our human intelligence ; and the 
unknowable, the unsearchable, and the unthinkable shall 
have lost their power to distract or madden us, with doubt 
or fear, or even to fill us with an arrogant assumption of 
possessing faculties of infinite comprehension. Then we 
may compensate ourselves for the deprivation of those 
delights of fancy which regaled the eager appetite of our 
early days, and for the decay of those mistaken faiths 
which may have even sustained the enthusiasm of maturer 
years, by laying the sweet solace to our calm souls that, 
however little may be the residuum of real knowledge we 
actually possess, at the least, we can no longer be deceived 
or alarmed by those who are as ignorant as ourselves. 

Good-Luck. 

It is a common observation that many of the obstacles 
to our cherished purposes axe crushed by the mere grasp 
of courageous endeavor. Weak natures go to the wall 
by letting " I dare not," wait upon " I would." It seems 
silly to say simply, if you wish a thing done, and it be 
not wrong : — " Do it." Yet it is a familiar experience 
tha,t the desirable things in this life often are thus accom- 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. IO9 

plished, by those bravely resolved, in the face of apparent 
impracticability. 

It is a trite observation that strong natures have confi- 
dence in luck. They seem even to overcome ill-fortune 
merely by their courage and energy. To a hesitating 
mind it is astonishing to note how the obstacles encoun- 
tered will appear to recede, and how obscurity will clarify 
itself, before the onward pressure of a determined and 
hopeful will. Hope is always the natural ally of the 
normal body or mind. Vague doubts and vacillations 
of purpose are common symptoms of mental infirmity 
— whether it be natural weakness, or the growth of a 
vicious habit, or the result of a morbid disturbance of 
physical equilibrium. 

The vigorous will, by an inspiration or law of its 
nature, always expects to succeed. Although we cannot 
foretell the future, with certainty, yet we may reason 
toward it, with some probability, or shrewdly divine it, 
with faith and hopefulness. While we are doing all in 
our power to ensure the accomplishment of our purpose, 
it is also a necessary ingredient of true courage to cherish 
a faith that the result must be as we would have it. The 
very state of mind, thus begotten or nourished, is not un- 
frequently itself the most important factor in achieving 
success. 

The weak are always marvelling how strong natures 
reach their ends with such apparent celerity and ease. 
They themselves waste time, and lose energy in appre- 
hension of failure. Vibrating between rashness and 
cowardice, they often bear all the fatigue of bolder 
effort, yet miss the prize by their vacillation. Fearing 



110 A UMINA TIONS, 

to risk, as the proverb runs, they fail to win. Acting at 
length, but impetuously — when spurred by shame of 
their cowardice, or by some exterior propelling motive, 
or by some headlong rashness of blind impulse — they 
strike at random. Taking more blows than they give, 
they often sink under inglorious defeat, disheartened by 
their imaginary ill-luck. 

It is an instinct of great natures also to be bold and 
even prodigal in the choice of means. Having their 
eye fixed upon an end, they rapidly select the best auxil- 
iaries ; — not always closely counting even the cost. 
They favor alliance with the strong. They select their 
agents, by sympathetic intuitions of their nature, from 
among the intelligent, the skilful, the courageous, the 
hopeful, the ambitious, the energetic, the determined, 
the capable. Conscious of innate superiority they 
have not that fear of comparison and rivalry — that 
jealousy and envy of their abettors — which is a com- 
mon infirmity of petty minds. A sovereign or leader, 
of powerful cast of intellect, with energetic will, thus 
aims to draw about him, by natural affinity, as counsel- 
lors, ministers, or lieutenants, men of large measure and 
virile strength. Weaker men, when chance has put them 
in commanding position — jealous of others' fame — are 
afraid to expose their own littleness to a humiliating 
contrast or an overshadowing, by calling around them 
men of capacity, energy, and courage, or dominating will. 

Despite the common outcry against the inevitable 
inequality of conditions in life, there appears to be a 
kind of book-keeping accompanying the favorable chan- 
ces of Fortune. It seems as if notwithstanding her 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. Ill 

fabled blindness, she sometimes kept a strict account 
with her beneficiaries. She appears to make her gifts 
the means of opportunity of good or ill, according as 
the recipients of her favor are proved deserving or other- 
wise. When a brave man, however humble, sets a definite 
aim before him, apprentices himself to the elementary 
methods of something worth doing, devotes his time, 
labor, and zeal to the training, disciplining, and adapting 
of his mind and hand to the work he is about to under- 
take, until he has acquired that hability in his occupation, 
which nothing but study, experience, and familiarity can 
give ; and then — by the added moral momentum of this 
protracted effort — devotes himself (with living faith in 
the result he aims at) to hard work, skilfully and per- 
sistently applied, he is on the high-road to what the hasty 
observer of only the last stage of the process calls good- 
luck. These things are axiomatic with both pagan and 
Christian men — ancient or modern. Audentes fortuna 
juvat. To him that has, more is given. And soon. If 
a wise man encounter good-luck, he will make of it a kind 
of provision against the accidents of ill-luck ; — so that 
good-fortune commonly seems to attend him to the end. 
But when a man will wholly trust to luck, and not to 
himself, even if it come he cannot husband it. For want 
of the habit of prudence, and also because he has usually 
allowed himself to become necessitous, he lays his hand 
upon the largess of chance as if it were his due, and he 
were bound to scatter it in extravagance. So it is soon 
gone, leaving him poorer than before. Every stroke of 
his good-luck may carry him farther into the morasses 
of life, until at last he sinks in despair. Unless, when 



112 RUMINATIONS. 

some violent stroke of calamity shall perchance overtake 
him, before the divine spark of energy is extinct within 
him (as will sometimes happen) he rally and reverse 
his methods of life. While profiting by that wisdom of 
fools, experience, he may make amends for his folly 
through supreme privation or self-sacrificing effort in a 
new direction — until he has achieved fortune. In fine, 
it is proverbial that the diligent, self-denying man will 
at least overtake good-luck ; while ill-luck commonly 
pursues the slothful and improvident lover of ease, pres- 
ent comfort, and pleasure. For it is well known that 
good-luck is, for the most part, only another name for 
well-used opportunity. 

Hopefulness. 

It is a lesson of an old philosophy that the charm of 
man's existence lies more in what seems than in what is. 
Imagination and fancy furnish the staple of our greatest 
pleasures. Illusion dominates even practical human affairs. 
Hope plays a conspicuous, if not the chief, part in the 
drama of life. "A hopeless person/' says Berkeley, "is 
one who deserts himself." Indeed it goes without saying 
that life ceases to be desirable when this fairy goes out of 
it, or hides herself. For then joy — which is as it were 
the blossom, as hope seems the bud, of human happi- 
ness — may no longer be looked for to show us its rosy hues. 
As poor Coleridge lamented, in his sixtieth year : — 

Where no hope is, life 's a warning, 
That only serves to make us grieve 
When we are old. 



TO UCHES OF At A TURE. 1 1 3 

Morally, as well as physically, we know we are con- 
trived inscrutably. Bare and hard though it would be, 
yet existence alone might content us if we were merely 
animals. Our composite human nature, however, fills us 
with ideals and longings that must somehow be satisfied 
— or we must hope for a satisfaction — else these cravings 
of our spiritual hunger make us more wretched than can 
the pangs of physical starvation. Bodily pain, if un- 
checked, usually soon runs its course into stupor, if not 
to entire insensibility. But mental anguish can grow in 
intensity, even by simply feeding upon itself ; — and, un- 
less alleviated by hope, may become intolerable, and 
seek its cessation even by voluntary death. 

In the conduct of life, both mental and moral hygiene 
demand of us constant watchfulness of ourselves. Our 
happiness here lies so much within our own control, that 
proverbially a large part of human misery is the result of 
vicious, self-taught, or indulged habits of body and mind. 
Indeed most of the signal events of our lives affect us 
vitally or superficially, for good or ill, according as we 
educate ourselves to allow, or not, their influence to have 
much or little sway over our after-conduct. 

Generally speaking, one may say, the experiences of 
this life are thrice tasted — first, in the anticipation or ap- 
prehension, second, in the actual fact, and third, in the 
retrospect. The first and last are to a large extent what, 
by our temperament, religion, or philosophy we choose to 
make them. Of the " fact," we are not always masters. If 
it be pleasant, we may give ourselves up to it consciously, 
and enjoy it heartily in its consummation. If it be pain- 
ful, we may still bear it with patient resignation, and ex- 



114 RUMINATIO. 

tract a moral from its bitterness ; — often learning how 
to avoid a like ill in future, and finding perhaps some 
comfort in the lesson. We may also make it a starting- 
point for a new onward and upward movement not other- 
opened to our view, chasten the retrospect into 
soothing melancholy, and sometimes taste the sweet uses 
of adversity. But out of the first — anticipation — by 
sheer habit of mind, we may make or mar the largest 
part of our mental or moral fortunes ; — just in proportion 
as we cultivate hopefulness, and courage, or give way to 
cowardice or idle apprehension. 

It is so obvious that groundless distrust of the future 
in any enterprise is not only useless, but positively tends 
to disable us for reaching what we strive after, that the 
permission of it to influence us can be set down as only 
the result of a depraved condition of mind. By na- 
ture it seems we should be cheerful and hopeful. It is 
by this theory and impulse alone that the young world 
moves on. For while hope energizes, fear paralyze 

Although some are constituted so fortunately that the 
former is always in the ascendant without any effort 
to keep it so, yet there are others — too many indeed — 
who are not full-eyed, but myopic, and need a constant 
self-watchfulness to keep the torch of hope blazing. It 
is worth all the trouble it costs. Nay, one of the lesser 
advantages of encouraging a disposition to take the cheer- 
ful view is that we spare ourselves the useless mischief of 
twice tasting the bitterness of things disagreeable. For 
by idle forecasting merely possible evil, we infuse the hem- 
lock into the cup of many of our real joys ;— while also 
depriving ourselves of the luxury of pleasing anticipations. 



TO UCHES OF NA TURE. 1 1 5 

Proverbial and even axiomatic as are these suggestions, 
so much are we influenced by temperament or obstinate 
habit, that they usually slip out of the memory when most 
needed for our encouragement, to sustain us either in our 
real afflictions, or when a strange consciousness of the 
apparent worthlessness of life seems sometimes unbidden 
to come over us like a pall. The best tonic for keeping 
the heart constantly sweet and sound, through all its 
vagaries, is to have some large, congenial, and worthy 
purpose always before the mind ; — with a determined 
will to accomplish it. Then the song of Hope will com- 
monly be heard in the air. For : — 

Work, without hope, draws nectar in a sieve, 
And work, without hope, cannot live. 



Judging Men. 

When we are forming opinions concerning our con- 
temporaries — whether canvassing their characters, motives, 
or conduct — as every one knows, we cannot be too care- 
fully discriminative in adopting a standard, or laying 
down rules by which to measure and determine their real 
merits or relative position toward each other. There 
are no fixed, general or special, formulas by which all 
may be rightly judged. It is hard to scrutinize our 
neighbor's conduct from his own stand-point. Every man 
being, to some extent, the creature of circumstances — in- 
ternal as well as external — each will be more or less 
successful as he overcomes the adverse, or avails himself 
of the easy, conditions of his life. Besides while many. 



1 1 6 ^ UMINA T10NS. 

who are favored by fortune, have the good sense to accu- 
mulate the gifts of chance, others, thinking the stream 
will continue to flow always, seize and consume only the 
pleasures of the day — taking no care for the morrow. 

Easy success in life, from whatever cause, has a con- 
stant tendency to make men arrogant and intolerant 
toward others, without their being conscious of their 
differing from ordinary men in this respect. Nothing in 
experience, however, makes a fair-minded, noble man so 
disposed to be liberal and charitable toward others, as 
his own personal hardship or sufferings by misfortune. 
Success through great personal effort by such an one, or 
the overcoming of obstacles seemingly insuperable, 
usually produces a character alive with sympathy for 
those who are struggling with like difficulties or making 
a manly fight against odds. Easy success, on the con- 
trary, commonly puffs up an ordinary man with conceit, 
and fills him with such a vain sense of his own importance, 
that sometimes it is difficult to award simple justice to 
his real merits. 

Indeed in forming honest and sound opinions of many 
of those whom the world and themselves deem successful 
men, it is necessary sometimes to take charitably into 
consideration this fact — of their success without personal 
effort or signal ability. It is better to make a large 
allowance to accident, for some of their shallow manifes- 
tations of folly and arrogance ; — which may be merely a 
kind of parasitic growth, and not native to, or inherent in 
the root of, their character. 

However fairly we may intend to judge of our neigh- 
bor's capacity, disposition, or actions, of course we in- 



TOUCHES OF NATURE, 11 7 

sensibly analyze them by, and compare them with, what 
we believe we know of ourselves. Every man's expressed 
opinion of another, in this respect, is liable to become, to 
some extent, an involuntary autobiographical betrayal of 
his own character. It is worth much or little, not merely 
from his opportunity of observation and intended im- 
partiality of judgment, but, more largely, from his 
sympathetic appreciation, or insight, whether natural or 
acquired by self-study. This is dependent, not simply 
upon the fulness and ripeness of his capacity, but 
rather upon the degree of his own self-knowledge — 
mental, moral, and practical. In abstract matters opinion 
may be colorless and impartial ; but in the notions we 
form of our fellow-men, or of practical matters, it is rarely 
true that our own views are not fashioned closely after 
our real or ideal selves and our own affairs. By such 
guiding or misleading lights — almost always uncon- 
sciously, too, influenced, if not controlled, by prevailing 
popular opinion — do we grope our way amid the labyrin- 
thine recesses of other men's characters or motives. 

Men, whose natures are narrow, and only objective, or 
purely matter-of-fact, whose social sympathies are 
feeble, or who are deficient in imagination — lacking 
either moral or mental insight — or who, by limited in- 
tercourse with mankind, have little knowledge of the 
ways of men and their modes of thinking and acting, who 
have lived isolated and apart from general intercourse 
with the active world, and whose external experience has 
been confined to a small routine of daily cares or duties, 
are prone to be harsh and severe — nay, very often bitter 
and apparently malignant— in their judgment of the lives 



Il8 RUMINATIONS. 

or characters, motives and actions, of those of more 
liberal natures or more widely varied vicissitudes of 
conduct. 

On the other hand, men of larger mould, who have 
participated in important affairs, public or private, whose 
natures are composite and many-sided — with minds 
original, creative, fertile, and versatile — whose imagina- 
tions are vivid and expansive, whose fancies are lively, 
whose sympathies are warm, excitable, broad, or pene- 
trating (such men as Shakespeare, Bacon, Goethe) ap- 
preciate the great variety and almost infinite complexity 
of human nature. They recognize good mixed with bad, 
make large allowance for seeming inconsistencies, are 
prone to hear not only " both " but all sides of any story 
— especially one affecting the conduct of another sus- 
pected or accused of ill-doing — and are wisely liberal 
or comprehensively charitable. They seldom condemn 
another unheard, or upon partial statements, or merely 
by ordinary circumstantial evidence, or without an oppor- 
tunity for his own full, unconstrained, and personal 
explanation. 

Puritan Philosophy. 

It is too common in these pleasure-loving days to rail 
thoughtlessly at the ascetic intolerance of our Puritanism 
during its primal history. Its extravagances had obvious 
defences. Where all honest men vividly realized, as a 
truth beyond decent question, that the soul of a man 
may exist independently of his body, that it is immortal, 
and that any departure from prevailing Christian dogmas 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. II9 

is sin — involving punishment by keenest torture of end- 
less duration — while the avoidance of such sin ensures 
eternal happiness and immeasurable joy, what wonder 
if large-hearted and noble-minded men were commonly 
reckless of the means to be employed for accomplishing 
their magnificent purpose of evangelizing the human race. 
Was it not worth the sacrifice of all the petty pleasures of 
this ephemeral existence to escape temptation and secure 
everlasting bliss ? 

Even if it were a mistake to lose our temporary gratifi- 
cations here through superabundant caution, and though 
such deprivation should prove to have been really need- 
less, what would such trifling considerations weigh in the 
balance against an assurance of perpetual enjoyment 
hereafter ? And how could men of superior capacity — 
the born leaders of their people — calmly and idly look 
upon their fellow-men violating the precepts of Christi- 
anity (as then recognized and understood by their com- 
munity) when it was so clear, to these responsible makers 
and executors of the supreme law of the land, that such 
heedless sinners were unquestionably bringing upon their 
immortal souls the irrevocable doom of endless torment, 
as the inevitable price to be paid for a few fleeting grati- 
fications of the senses, passions, or inclinations of a miser- 
able, depraved, and despicable body ? 

No wonder they doubted the professed faith of any 
light-minded man of the world (no matter how attentive 
to mere outward religious ceremonials) that could not 
easily be reconciled with his apparent indifference to 
such pending infinite disaster. Their cardinal error lay, 
as is now acknowledged, in their contempt for human 



1 20 R UMINA TIONS, 

nature, and their hatred of some of its instincts as they 
understood them. 

The atmosphere grows clearer nowadays. Men's 
eyes are opened more widely. Less inclined to purblind- 
ness from too much straining of the sight in an endeavor 
to catch a glimpse of the invisible future, they see the 
tangible present more distinctly — and perhaps with a 
more just perspective. 

A truer philosophy of normal life is the offspring of 
rational hope, courageous joy, and unquestioning cheer- 
fulness. This leads one neither to mourn over the past 
nor to shudder at the future, but innocently to reap the 
harvest or gather the fruits of present existence, and to 
enjoy the fulness thereof. It welcomes spontaneity and 
revels in freshness. It finds no need to analyze imagi- 
nary conditions or morbid emotions in its endeavors to 
convince a reluctant proselyte of the existence of some 
obscure happiness he cannot conceive. 

But our Puritanical philosophy — in its severest phases 
— seems to have been the reverse of all this. It was 
always counting its imaginary beads — apparently in order 
to keep its conscience lively. Although it sometimes 
looked helplessly into the past, with a sigh of regret for 
pleasures missed, yet it leaped beyond the present or 
near future, and lost all the elasticity of mere apprecia- 
tive hope by seeking to adapt men to a remotely possible 
condition of things immeasurably beyond the scope of 
their capacity or even adequate conception. As Heine 
says : — " Its secret was the deification of suffering. ,, 

When this unnatural process of dealing with the facts 
of life stumbles against some insuperable obstacle ; when 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 121 

this kind of philosophy teaches the anxious soul to put 
questions for which, no satisfactory solution is found ; or 
when from the nature of things the questioning spirit 
meets only a hollow echo or a silent rebuff — the inquiry 
recoils, like an awkward boomerang springing back upon 
its holder. 

The prospective punishment threatened, by these Puri- 
tans of the early type, to recalcitrant followers was fiend- 
ishly harsh ; but the promised rewards offered here to 
devotees were little better. Some of the lines even in 
Longfellow's famous Psalm of Life — although said by 
the author to have been written for self-consolation in 
despondency — appear to be tinctured with something of 
this Puritanical spirit, and give voice to a weary soul 
striving to keep itself miserable according to a supposed 
divine law. The prospect mapped out before a perfect 
man is not joy, nor even content ; but alas ! a task of 
sober toil during his too conscious march to the grave ! 
Nothing is offered but the poor consolation that his foot- 
prints can lead others, who may be shipwrecked on life's 
solemn main, to trudge on with hope, like ourselves, of 
— waiting forever — for what ? We listen long and pro- 
foundly. No satisfactory answer comes — but the boom- 
erang flies back again. 

Favors. 

It is hard enough to earn money by joyless labor — 
done merely for the sake of the money. It is harder 
still either to keep it (that is, to invest it so as not to 
make losses) or to spend it judiciously — not wastefully 
nor foolishly — when one has acquired more than enough 



122 R UMINA TIONS. 

to satisfy one's current needs. But the most difficult of 
all modes of dealing with money is to give it away wisely. 
The problem is to give so as to be least morally hurtful 
to the giver, and so as neither to make ingrates, encour- 
age laziness, cultivate pauperism, nor to wound the self- 
love of worthy recipients of pecuniary or other material 
favor — and at the same time to arouse neither envy nor 
resentment in others. 

The commonest check to the good impulses of one 
who loves to give, or in anywise to help another, is, of 
course, ingratitude. It is a pity this is true. One ought 
to extend a helping hand to the needy, we are told, in 
whatever degree, at least according to one's superfluity, 
without the stimulus of an expectation of gratefulness 
from the receiver. We are taught to do so simply and 
purely in obedience to that lofty, natural or civilized in- 
stinct — which is the gentle command, whether divine or 
human, of a kind nature — that " Asian ideal of unknown 
antiquity," to do unto others as we would they should, 
under like circumstances, do unto us. 

When gifts are unremitting, forgetfulness of kindness 
is a common infirmity of preoccupied minds, as well as of 
shallow or selfish natures. As much as misery itself, it is 
apt to dwarf and enfeeble, perhaps wholly demoralize, 
the finer faculties, mental as well as moral. Sometimes, 
too, the recipiency of unmerited favor has such a paralyz- 
ing effect upon the sensibilities of ordinary people, that 
it deadens their inward self-respect, and even checks the 
common outward desire, or look, for respect from others. 

Once in a while this failure, or tardiness, to acknowl- 
edge the obligation of favor, assumes a humorous aspect. 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 1 23 

When a beneficiary returns after a long absence to thank 
you for past favors he has thoughtlessly neglected to 
acknowledge, you may be reasonably sure his quickened 
memory has a politic impulse. His sudden access of 
thankfulness is a prelude to a supplication for some ad- 
ditional help, such as a fresh gift of money — nominally 
disguised as a loan payable at his convenience. 

It is sometimes a nice matter to deal properly, either 
in bestowing or receiving favors, even among ordinary 
friends and acquaintances. Among kindred where love 
and affection sincerely prevail, or with those who are 
held in bonds of true friendship and consequent intimacy 
and mutual good understanding, there is little difficulty. 
Instinctive good impulses, tempered by polite custom, 
appear to regulate the subject pleasantly enough. But 
among the hundreds, classed sometimes as our friends 
and again as mere acquaintances, there is no small em- 
barrassment. If I accept a favor pressed upon me from 
a mere fugitive acquaintance, it is very likely to be soon 
followed by an application for a pecuniary loan, never to 
be repaid ; or perhaps for the use of my supposed per- 
sonal influence in some quarter where I would not exercise 
it, or to gain a purpose which I deem questionable in 
itself or unsuitable for me to advance, or where perhaps 
the applicant himself is undeserving of what he seeks to 
obtain. 

It seems as if some unconscious dread of such a result 
were the prompting motive of many persons to reciprocate 
as soon as possible any favor bestowed. Doubtless too, 
it is a spectral suspicion of the prevalence of this kind of 
apprehension that makes a sensitive person feel so an- 



1 24 R UMINA TIOXS. 

noyed, and perhaps even insulted, upon finding a favor 
or token of pure esteem, admiration or incipient affection 
— as yet perhaps not thoroughly recognized — returned 
either in kind or too quickly. 

The sensation experienced at such times is not unlike 
that felt upon having a proffered gift rejected, or, when un- 
avoidably received, sent back to the giver. It comes 
upon one more like a rebuff than a cordial recognition of 
intended kindness or compliment. Sometimes, however, 
necessarily it is resorted to as a protection against in- 
trusion. Perhaps, it may be said, these are not native 
traits of our common humanity ; but rather derivative 
ones. They have grown out of a complex, or, sometimes, 
too refined social condition. They are a species of de- 
fensive outworks occasionally necessary to ward off the 
approach of designing social impertinence. 

The Speculative Philosopher. 

The actual working of the social relations of man with 
man must always continue to be a complex and embar- 
ng study. His general conduct, as a social being, is 
the resultant of such innumerable and diverse forces, 
latent as well as open, that the study of maxims, rules, 
and formulas alone, without practical experience — by 
dealing with generalities and omitting exceptions — tends, 
by false or imperfect ideas, to mislead the most sincere 
and earnest student or comprehensive thinker. 

For discreet and effectual participation in the transac- 
tions of men (whether in social life, in business, or in 
public affairs), also for wisdom in forming opinions of 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 125 

human character or actions, nothing can compensate 
for the want of a practical personal acquaintance with hu- 
man nature, as it is manifested by both individuals and 
communities, great or small, in their ordinary actual move- 
ments. It is often observed, that the merely speculative 
philosopher, or closet-thinker — like a poet or novelist of the 
library— falls into many practical errors, and often misses 
the mark aimed at. He errs in some of his profoundest 
studies and calculations, or shrewdest forecasts, from 
mere ignorance, or from mistaken notions of the common 
motives, impulses, and methods of action of men both in 
their daily pursuits and in their general affairs. 

He is prone to regard man too much as a logical 
creature, who is quick to perceive his own real interest — 
remote as well as immediate. He fancies him to be swift 
to follow his convictions concerning what leads to his 
own advantage, when made obvious to his unob- 
structed vision, either by his own observation and reflec- 
tion, or through being pointed out to him by another. 
Such a schoolman innocently assumes, like other idealistic 
dreamers, that every man, not under external restraint, is 
a free, mental as well as moral, agent. He perceives 
nothing, in man's will at least, to impede his voluntary 
choice of the obvious, readiest, and most effectual means 
available for him to accomplish the desirable end he has 
in view. 

AYhat a mistake ! Whosoever has observed and closely 
studied the nature and ways of his fellow-men, by long, 
actual intercourse with them, well knows that logic, like 
consistency, is to be computed among the weaker of the 
dynamics of common life. Many may be convinced, 



1 26 R UMINA TIONS. 

but few will become, or remain persuaded. Association, 
friendship, prejudice, passion, habit, indolence, accidental 
circumstances of trivial moment, present convenience or 
comfort, personal peculiarities — natural or acquired, 
physical, mental or moral — love of ease or pleasure, and a 
thousand other factitious obstacles, as everybody knows, 
will often stand in the way of reasonable action. Like 
the hungry cat, that craved the fish but dreaded the 
water, a man will also sometimes almost starve in the 
midst of abundance for mere want of decision to choose, 
or courage to change, his course, or for lack of strength 
or will to thwart present convenience, by following either 
his mental or moral convictions concerning what is clearly 
best and most desirable for him to do or to avoid. 

Whoever, therefore, would guide individual or social 
conduct, or control either public opinion or common 
thought, in civil or social affairs, must begin by expect- 
ing but little consistency or logical coherence in men's 
doings under any circumstances. He must make always 
a liberal allowance for inexplicable deflections from the 
straight line, that reason may indicate to a rational man 
to be the direct road to his true and permanent interest, 
or that even conscience shall tell him it is his duty to 
pursue. 

Advice. 

Advice, although good, concerning our personal con- 
duct, when opposed to our inclination, is not unlike a 
nauseous curative drug offered to a sick man. It is pro- 
verbially easier to give than to take — however greatly it 
may be needed. The chief obstacle, however, in the way of 



- TOUCHES OF NATURE. 12/ 

sound advice being well received, is generally a simple in- 
capacity to take it. Unsought advice is commonly repelled 
as impertinent. It is regarded as too cheap for utility. 
It is presumed to have cost the donor nothing, and to be 
the mere flippancy of a meddler. Even judicious advice 
— especially from a superior — by its tone of authority, 
sometimes, seems like an unwelcome command. At the 
best it inclines to arouse irritation, as if it impaired our 
liberty of conduct. It seems to put us, as it were, under 
some kind of obligation to follow it, or at least to appear 
to do so, despite our indifference or disapproval. 

Likewise, when a man seeks counsel of another, unless 
he have in his mind, in his temper, or in his culture, the 
conditions necessary to enable him to comprehend, ap- 
preciate, and assimilate good advice, it will be a pearl 
thrown away, when given to him. It is therefore often a 
misfortune, rather than a fault, with many, that timely 
words of wisdom so commonly pass unheeded. 

A person suffering such a disability is not unlike a patient, 
under medical treatment, whose constitutional stamina are 
too feeble to bear the application of the remedies proper 
to expel, or suppress, the cause of his diseased condi- 
tion. In such cases, some preliminary palliative may be 
necessary, until mere rest from irritability or exhaustion 
shall have restored the body to such a degree of strength 
that medicine can aid nature, without too great disturb- 
ance of unbalanced or enfeebled functions. But above 
all, the prosperity of advice is generally dependent upon 
a thorough assurance that disinterested good-will, and 
honest intention, prompt one's adviser. 

A few simple rules might make advice more palatable, 



128 R UMINA TIONS. 

and less ineffectual. First the adviser should be well 
assured he is free from all unavowed personal motive of 
selfish interest, or even inclination, and that he sincerely 
wishes well to the person he would counsel. Besides, he 
ought to learn specifically all the important facts of the 
case in hand, from the real party interested, with their 
special bearings — viewed from that person's individual 
stand-point. Next he should weigh all such facts and 
views, fairly, with due care and forecast, from his own 
point-of-view. Then he should compare the two sets of 
views, if they differ, as well as ponder all their resulting 
considerations, as best he may. Finally he should strive 
to put himself, as it were, in the very shoes of the one 
seeking his counsel, and to offer then, sympathetically, 
only his best judgment. When thus sugar-coated, quite a 
bitter pill may be swallowed, by one needing it — with but 
little resistance and sometimes with real benefit, if not 
gratitude. 

Social Isolation. 

Philosophers smile contemptuously at the fondness of 
people for a crowd, and for their slavish reciprocal de- 
pendence upon each other to amuse and entertain them, 
as well as to guide them in their thoughts, opinions, or 
actions. Yet the basis of this tendency is in the love of 
our fellow-men ; and is the corner-stone of the human 
side of Christianity. Being founded in simple and honest 
human nature, it works harmoniously with other like 
tendencies toward an equilibrium in self-conduct and 
self-estimate, according to the measure of the strength of 
each individual. 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 1 29 

Isolation, by self-concentration and the exclusion of a 
relative, or even intrinsic, view of the rights and deserts 
of others, necessarily begets in us self-conceit, exaggera- 
tion of the merits of our own selves or belongings, and a 
consequent, if not additional, underestimate of the value 
of other people. 

Association and familiar intercourse with our fellow- 
men, on the contrary, induce toleration of, and liberality 
toward, the opinions, manners, conduct, and characters 
of others. We afford them a chance to give their own 
version of the matters within their special cognizance, or 
peculiarly affecting themselves. In this manner we be- 
come able to hear with their ears, to see with their eyes, 
what concerns them, and to sympathize practically with 
their special emotions. By such means too, we can bet- 
ter contemplate them and their surroundings in their true 
character and relation toward each other, giving each 
credit for what is his due — instead of blindly or super- 
ciliously condemning them for folly, or wrong-doing, 
without charity, or even a hearing. We can thus, also, 
far more readily, regulate our views of our own relative 
position toward them, than if we had stood apart — 

in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts. 

Nevertheless, we cannot get always, easily, ourselves into 
a true relative position in such matters, merely by force 
of nature or by the chance of common circumstances. 
Some men are born with an overbearing instinct for 
solitude, and some, by the evolution of unusual circum- 
stances, come in middle life to find themselves standing 



I 30 R UMINA TIONS. 

alone, although naturally social, and loving their kind. 
It becomes every one then, closely to study either his own 
nature or his peculiar individual history, or both, in this 
regard, and — if he would keep mind and heart sound and 
savory — to beware of drifting away from the tonic influ- 
ence that comes from heartily mixing with mankind in 
general. At least as a matter of moral regimen in his 
self-treatment, one inclined to solitariness should cultivate 
and strive to keep up a lively interest in all human 
affairs ; modestly following the sympathetic suggestion of 
old Terence : — Homo sum, etc. 

Mental Balance. 

Generally speaking, one may reckon safely the degree 
of his health of body or mind, according to his ability to 
see or feel the common, every-day things around him 
in their true and just relative proportions. When, there- 
fore — through honest introspection — he shall find him- 
self inclined unduly either to exaggerate or belittle any 
ordinary present matter or passing event, or such as is 
usually coming, he may count that circumstance as 
evidence of a loss of at least somewhat of his mental 
equilibrium. The lying scale gives false weight. In- 
deed, this suggestion indicates to the close observer a 
common practical, and not unfair, test of the condition 
of the mental sanity possessed by most persons we chance 
to meet in ordinary social intercourse. 

Even in the best ordered lives there will sometimes 
come strange moments, of short or long duration — a sort 
of collapse of hope or zest for anything in life — when 
men will pause and say to themselves, with something of 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 131 

the querulousness of despondency — cui bono? What ad- 
vantage is there in anything ? This may happen even with- 
out apparent cause. But when a great man suddenly drops 
dead in the midst of active and noble usefulness to his 
race, when a grand purpose is frustrated by some trivial 
accident, or when, by some unexpected event, the result 
of years of patient, painful labor is swept away, amaze- 
ment seems, for the time, to paralyze hope and almost to 
unsettle the serenest judgment. It leaves only a stolid 
indifference in place of the natural spring and joyousness 
of healthy life. 

As respects the mental dissatisfaction — sometimes ap- 
proaching despair — that so often overwhelms the youth- 
ful aspirant for learning, power, fame, or the intelligent 
good-will of mankind, little need be said. This is merely 
a symptom that Nature is working out in him a theory of 
intellectual expansion, and may perhaps be likened to 
what are called the " growing pains " of a young body. 

Failure too will embitter, sometimes, the soul of the 
envious or vain, so as to unhinge reason. There is no 
sharper or more unscrupulous tooth than the malice of 
the unsuccessful. When failure is not only conscious 
but deserved and frankly self-confessed, it may become 
more amiable. But then, perhaps, the prospect of oblivion 
will be its only coveted respite from inward regret, and 
the mortification arising from outward neglect. 

Language. 

The words we use betray involuntarily the temper of 
the mind at the time we employ them. The calm, clear, 
honest mind finds nouns and verbs most useful in ex- 



132 R UMINA TIONS. 

pressing its ideas. It philosophically and dispassionately 
lays open to the common eye all it would unfold. It is 
in no hurry to accomplish its end, and approaches its 
climax by a gradual movement. When, however, passion 
or excitement (especially with superficial knowledge and 
partial views) prevails — as they are prone to do when 
the subject is too big or unfamiliar for the mind that 
strives to hold or express it — it is observed often, the 
speaker inclines to adjectives, descriptive participles, and 
mere expletives, accompanied by emphasis, exaggeration, 
or hyperbole. These are the natural outcome of a super- 
heated mental condition ; and almost inevitably obscure 
the more valuable distinctive particulars of the subject in 
hand. 

The cold, impartial, reasoning talker prefers simplicity 
of statement. Trusting to the merit of his thought, he is 
liable to be even careless of the dress it wears, except so 
far as to make it explicit and presentable. He desires 
neither to attract, or distract, attention by the mere ex- 
ternal garb of his ideas. The passionate writer, on the 
contrary — especially if invention lag — hunts throughout 
his vocabulary for extravagant terms, and for pictorial or 
inflammatory words. His imagination is fired, he inflames 
his reader, his effects are vivid and intense. Yet, except 
on occasions of vital moment, as when life or fortune is at 
stake, they are transitory. They leave but little residuum 
worth preserving in the memory, besides, perhaps, a 
merely overwrought beauty of diction. 

When a theme is worn hopelessly threadbare, this ex- 
travagance of ornament may be sometimes a merit — if 
something must be said, But when a fact or thought is 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 133 

fresh, worth telling, and deserving of preservation as an 
addition to, or as a comparison with, our stock of valua- 
bles, the simpler and plainer the language used, the better 
for the prosperity of the idea. 

By some unconscious process, when such a thing is 
done by a strong hand, the severity of style becomes a 
lucid channel, in which the idea floats so naturally, the 
hearer, almost unconsciously, is taken captive at once. 
As Webster superbly says : — " The costly ornaments and 
studied contrivances of speech shock and disgust men, 
when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their 
children, and their country hang on the decision of the 
hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is 
vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible." 

Bores. 

To a busy man in a large city, during business hours, 
the importance of economizing time can hardly be over- 
estimated. Every minute wasted by himself, or taken 
idly from him by another, costs him at least some 
extra exertion ; but more often actual loss of opportunity, 
or fatal delay, in vital affairs. His most exasperating 
foeman is an idle man, who visits him at his place of 
business in the crowded part of the day, and thus 
thoughtlessly robs him of his most precious and very 
limited possession. 

In social intercourse inopportunity may be as distress- 
ing as petty iteration is tiresome. The enemy may come 
in the shape of a city-man-of-leisure, who will sit an hour 
and talk of pictures, books, travel or amusements, not 



1 34 # UMINA TIC MS. 

seeing that every word he utters is a torment to his vic- 
tim, and that the idea uppermost in the mind of his 
listener is how to find some pretext. for forcibly expelling 
the intruder. Mayhap the visitor is some chance acquaint- 
ance one has met very sociably during their recent 
summer vacation, and who is now passing leisurely 
through the town, but stopping for a little chat over past 
enjoyments. Or, perchance, it is some favorite relative 
from the country, who makes an annual trip to the 
metropolis and has left all care and concern about his 
own affairs, with all notion of the value of time, behind 
him. The antagonistic moods, in which they now meet, 
sometimes put them at such reciprocal disadvantage that 
they seldom afterwards can endure complacently the 
sight of each other. Amiability and congeniality sink 
rapidly to the freezing-point. Only some extraordinary 
event in after-days can restore the lost warmth. A tacit 
misunderstanding thus begotten may disrupt forever the 
harmony of all their sympathies. 

In some form this is a very old notion. Yet in our 
day — when limited hours of work, distance between home 
and shop, and the rapidity or multiplicity of complica- 
tions in business or practical duties, have so greatly in- 
creased the strain thus put upon the attention of both 
commercial and scholarly men — what was once a delight- 
ful interlude, or, at most, merely a petty annoyance, has 
become a real affliction. Not unfrequently it exposes 
the thoughtless cause of it to the severe secret animad- 
version of even a most patient or charitably disposed 
sufferer. 



TOUCHES OF NATURE, 135 

Fastidiousness. 

Fastidiousness may not be a vice or a misfortune, but 
certainly it is an impediment to some persons. Perhaps, 
however, it is not always an unmixed evil ; nor, in some 
communities, a source of serious vexation. Among our 
people, however, it is commonly reckoned a superfluous 
embarrassment, and a source of real annoyance. It tends 
to destroy equability, and the possibility of repose, by 
putting and keeping one constantly in a frame of mind 
that is expecting too much. With all present drawbacks 
to the hope of a condition of ideal perfection in any of 
our surroundings — public or private, social or individual, 
common or peculiar — it demands the charity of a wide 
toleration to discover even general laws working smoothly, 
where so many things in our daily lives are apparently at 
cross purposes. 

Fastidiousness is not a native American trait, nor has 
it yet become an acclimated one. Whatsoever we may 
seem to have of it has been transplanted unmethodically 
from an older civilization into ours. Perhaps it has come 
to some few individuals among us by a mysterious law of 
heredity, from the refined nature of some ancestor, near 
or remote, who has lived in a society where social per- 
fectibility, and a realization of the visions of ideality, 
were far more approximately possible than with us. For 
it lies deeper than method or manner. It has its root in 
the genius and conscience of the individual. 

For at least a century to come, and perhaps longer, we 
must be content to take our lot, social and political, in 
the rough. Everything of a public or private nature, and 



I36 R UMWA T10NS, 

almost everything that touches us merely as individuals, 
is now in a transitional state. Repose, without apathy, is 
almost unknown among us. Uneasiness is our normal 
condition. Quiet and stillness are classed among un- 
desirable conditions, like sloth or death. Restlessness is 
deemed a virtue, and counted upon as an indication of 
moral or intellectual activity and ambition for excellence. 
The subsidence, and orderly settlement of the disturb- 
ing elements of social and political life, are delayed in- 
definitely, by their constantly changing, augmenting or 
diminishing in character, quality or number : — 

Double, double toil and trouble ; 
Fire, burn ; and cauldron bubble. 

Success in Life. 

What we call success in life — especially as respects 
wealth — is attained more often through narrowness of 
views and limited capacity, than by comprehensiveness 
of mind, liberality of opinion, or a large sympathy with 
human affairs. In common practical business the man of 
contracted range of vision, by his singleness of purpose 
with pertinacity of endeavor, will ordinarily accomplish 
what misses the grasp of his larger-minded neighbor. 
To the first it is easy to limit himself to attempting but 
few things — obvious, or at least practicable — and to 
doing only one thing at a time. Such a rule appears to 
be indispensible to personal success. With the man of 
larger mould, however, nothing short of necessity, or a 
self-dominating will, can confine his efforts to those few 
and narrow lines that thus surely lead on to individual 
fortune. 



TO UCHES OF NA TURE. 1 3 7 

In youth the imperfection of vision, the limited experi- 
ence and the very deficiencies of immaturity, added to 
the enthusiasm of our young blood, usually keep the eye 
of the mind riveted upon few objects of permanent 
desire. When the will is strong enough to conspire, such 
influences push us on to achieve our undertakings. But 
when the zest of a fresh pursuit begins to wane ; when our 
minds, if liberal by nature, expand and grow with time 
and experience ; when our moral prospect broadens as 
we mount the hill of life ; when the darling projects of 
early days — by contrast and relationship — are shown to 
be but toys or baubles ; when the once few objects of 
life have multiplied to be many ; when we are able to 
compare ourselves and our aims, with our predecessors 
and the grand achievements of heroic men ; then, indeed, 
it demands all the strength of a disciplined nature — and 
even sometimes the sharp spur of necessity, backed by a 
determined will — to resist the temptation to scatter our 
forces, and, by wasting our energy upon a multitude of 
projects, to end in accomplishing none of them. 

It was a wise old Greek myth that made Misfortune 
gleefully reply, to the question once put to her : — 
" Whither are you going ? " — " Ah ! I am about to visit 
the man of many trades ! " • 

Confession of Ignorance. 

For some people it is very difficult, and seems almost 
impossible to say : — " I don't know/' This painful 
effort, which it costs to confess ignorance — whether 
naturally so designed or not — often, however, acts as a 
wonderful stimulus to prick the ordinary mind to study 



I38 £ VM1NA TIONS. 

and acquire knowledge of matters that commonly interest 
mankind. It is not so much that the large possession of 
general information exalts one above the common man, 
but rather that to know many things saves one from the 
humiliation of confessing ignorance of what it is pre- 
sumed, by our companions, we ought to know. 

Yet many are, both in mind and body, too fond of 
slothful ease and idle self-indulgence — too prone to listen 
to the lulling voice of that step-mother of ignorance, pro- 
crastination — to take the trouble to satisfy the natural 
desire of even a normal mind to know what is worth 
knowing, or what is commonly expected to be known in 
ordinary intercourse with the world. For such people it 
is far easier to say : — " I guess " — a proper expression, 
sometimes derisively miscalled American, meaning merely 
" I conjecture " — without any other basis than idle fancy 
for their vague supposition. 

When a man is truly recognized as being well-informed 
upon many subjects, of course he may safely be so frank 
as to avow his ignorance of some. But if one knows little 
or nothing of a topic that happens to be under social dis- 
cussion, he will not unfrequently furnish you with a sup- 
position to explain the most embarrassing phenomenon. 
Indeed, with this kind of character, when thoroughly 
unscientific and undisciplined, his conjecture is usually 
quite out of proportion, even to his opportunity of ac- 
quiring real knowledge. As in other human affairs, how- 
ever, it is far better, even for one's social credit, as our 
primers teach us, to be honest and confess ignorance of 
what we do not know. Looking also merely from the 
lowest point of view — if we have no better motive — a 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 1 39 

sense of shame may thenceforth at least drive us to giving 
a little more time and labor to wiping away the clouded 
surface of our neglected minds — thus saving ourselves 
from future mortification under like circumstances. 

A Ruling Passion. 

Aside from the insurmountable circumstances that 
control our lives — or " the divinity that shapes our ends " 
— more men are led through life by an inclination and 
passion of some sort, than are self-moved by their mere 
will or intellect, in the accomplishment of character. The 
latter faculties are, for the most part, exercised by 
ordinary men merely as the means of attaining some 
temporary possession or some ephemeral heart's desire, 
rather than to achieve such permanent good as their 
sober judgment approves. Only a few lofty souls are 
guided by pure reason alone in the whole conduct of their 
lives. Such sublime men, although too frequently mal- 
treated by their contemporaries, are likely, however, to 
leave their work — when allowed to be done according to 
their designs — ultimately to be appreciated by the race, 
and themselves sometimes to be classed as god-like. 

They form strong attachments among the pure and the 
just, and exalt friendship to something almost divine. 
Profoundly does Hamlet say to his friend Horatio : — 

Give me that man 
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, 
As I do thee. 

But even among higher natures, generally speaking, 
love of power leads the most strong, love of fame the 



1 46 ^ UMINA TlOJStS. 

more sympathetic — the noble lovers of their race — love 
of wealth the ordinary. Meanwhile love of pleasure — 
sometimes innocent, sometimes debasing — dominates the 
character of a great many who possess ample abilities to 
achieve either power, fame, or wealth, but who prefer 
what they regard as philosophic ease, or what may in fact 
be enervating luxury, or even degrading vice. Early 
inclination also — natural or artificial — when long fostered, 
has very much to do in determining the choice of paths 
in life by some men. But on the whole, and in the long 
run — although often unknown to us until too late to 
change — some ruling passion or inclination of mind or 
heart (despite the tyranny of circumstances) either elects 
or materially shapes our chief purposes, and our persistent 
ways of life. 

Dread of Censure. 

Our most amiable traits are constantly liable to betray 
us into error. Love of the good opinion of our neighbors 
is accounted one of the most precious elements of human 
nature. Yet, so fickle and ill-grounded is popular 
applause, that they who strive merely to win, are almost 
sure to deserve to lose it, by sacrificing, or at least maim- 
ing, their own natural sense of good or evil in the struggle. 
The endeavor to avoid blame would seem to be a motive 
so lovable that it must always secure admiration. Never- 
theless it is usually regarded as the companion of weak- 
ness, if not of sheer pusillanimity ; likely often to mislead 
the over-anxious into the very slough of unpopularity he 
wishes especially to eschew. 

No man of practical talent or positive character, who 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 141 

is (as such generally must be) a man of industry and 
action — and one necessarily taking sides upon all ques- 
tions of immature or growing opinion concerning the 
current matters of his time- — can escape a frequent ex- 
posure to ridicule or even reproach. Such are the human 
weapons naturally used in the battle of life, both by those 
who have no better implements of warfare, as well as by 
those who know how much the notice and sympathy of 
numbers may be provoked by the employment of these 
stimulants to attention. With many, the yielding to this 
dread of reproach or ridicule is often an easy method of 
reconciling themselves to their indulgence of a selfish 
indolence, when put under the prickings of the spur of 
duty. By this cowardly means too, some can soothe even 
their excited vanity or longing, jealousy or envy, when 
unprofitably stirred by seeing another do what they per- 
haps could not do or dare not attempt. Their love of 
ease persuades them to omit the effort. By such inaction, 
they hope to escape at least the mortification of derision 
or obloquy. They accept a negative compensation of 
inglorious peace for the loss, real or imaginary, of the 
spoils of war. 

Self-Knowledge. 

Besides what we may gain by inner self-study, truly to 
know either ourselves or others, we must change our point 
of view — as it were, getting outside of ourselves and 
making our observations externally. Only when we thus 
honestly compare ourselves with others, do we approach 
a correct self-estimate. The stand-point of self commonly 
blinds us when judging ourselves, as well as bewilders 
us when we judge others, 



1 42 R UMINA TIONS. 

The sum and effect of the study of many others give 
us a better ideal standard of measurement, by which to 
test either our own short-comings, or to guage the degree 
of any special merit we ourselves possess. We may too 
well know our own peculiar weaknesses or deficiencies, 
but we seldom properly can measure our own strength or 
capacity, except by some comparison based upon obser- 
vation and close study of the doings of other men, in 
their actual work — or perhaps even by collaboration 
with them. 

This spice of knowledge of comparative human nature 
cannot be acquired by any mere reading concerning the 
lives and deeds of other men. Books alone will not 
suffice. They furnish outlines, but the vivifying motive, 
and the details of the picture, are generally somehow 
wanting. Only a small residuum of the real workings of 
any life, however open and public, goes into a book. In 
the case of most men, what is known to the world in 
general, of even their vital movements, is like a mere 
point of candle-light in a dark mine. Generally, practical 
life (involving daily intercourse among men) with its 
novel suggestions and endless comparisons, is a much 
higher school for real self-knowledge, than even the 
closest lonely self-contemplation. 

Superiority. 

There appear to be, at the least, three conspicuously 
separate, open roads for a man to pursue who wishes to 
excel the common mass of his race. One class of men 
will strive to accomplish great ends merely in order to 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 1 43 

win the applause or favorable opinion of his fellow- 
creatures. Another order finds its greatest gratification 
in excelling, chiefly because its members are thereby put 
in the possession of coveted power, or afforded the 
pleasure of exercising it, over other men. Still another 
class may be said in large measure to love excellence in 
itself, for its own sake, and in order to be happy — through 
an imperiality of their nature — by pursuing and achiev- 
ing superiority, either as a matter of course, or from a 
dominating sense of duty to their fellow-men, regardless 
even of recognition of their greatness or of what a 
prating world may say of them. 

Each of these three great divisions of men appears to 
be moved, in greater or less degree, by a common or like 
impulse. Yet while this grandest class of characters may 
grow where sheer egotism is absent — despite the most 
untoward circumstances, — the others are usually nour- 
ished by some form of selfishness ; either by the expec- 
tation of a gratification of their vanity, or by zeal for 
applause, or by some of the lower intellectual motives. 
These, it is suspected, compose the more numerous body 
of famous men. The other class is more rare, yet it has 
furnished nearly all of the great surviving lights, in the 
pathway of invention, discovery, science, learning, know- 
ledge, wisdom, and human advancement, across the track 
of past centuries. 

Inconsistency. 

Apart from that order of men, like Emerson, whose in- 
tellect is always undergoing a process of germination, and 
is fecund in fresh growths from infancy until long past 



1 44 R UMINA TIONS. 

middle age — men whose increasing intelligence, with a 
more commanding point of view, renders a change of 
opinion a necessary ingredient of mental honesty — there 
is a much humbler part of mankind with many of whom 
apparent inconsistency is unavoidable. This variableness 
arises, not so much from any want of fairness as from 
downright frankness. Instead of being an indication of 
insincerity on their part, it is rather a manifestation of the 
superficialness of their mental or moral nature, and the 
weather-vane-like fickleness of their instant attitude and 
outlook. 

With some men, expression of opinion as well as mode 
of conduct are almost wholly dependent upon the partic- 
ular mood of temper or frame of mind — however tem- 
porary or fugitive — in which they happen to be when 
called upon to speak or act. Both their reason and un- 
derstanding — if the intellect of such persons be suscep- 
tible of such a division — are governed by their general 
temperament or disposition, except when that force is 
thrown out of gear by some momentary passion or incli- 
nation. What appears to them at one time prudent and 
proper, at another — with no material change of person or 
circumstances — seems rash and unsuitable. 

Yet are they, on each occasion, quite honest and sin- 
cere. They are variable in their opinions by a law of 
their nature without suspecting it. The very axis of all 
their revolutions of thought and conduct is itself naturally 
shifty and inconstant. A friend suggests that this class 
of persons are, however, usually at least consistent in re- 
fusing to look at a matter from any point of view except 
what may be, for the time being, their own, If this be 



TOUCHES OF NATURE, 145 

true it is doubtless something of a virtue, because unrea- 
soning obstinacy is the chief main-stay of weak minds. 

Customary Religion. 

Many men among us appear to treat most of their re- 
ligious observances as they do their ordinary clothing. 
They seem to put on religion as a habit, and wear it as a 
matter of course, without question or consideration. 
They care to see only that it shall not look singular, 
although, perhaps, it may sometimes shine with some new- 
ness of lustre, a little more than usual on a holy-day. 

Here, they naturally wear the apparel customary to 
civilization. Had such men been bred among barbarians 
they would have been easily pagans. They would have 
worn also garments made from the skins of beasts ; per- 
haps little more than a girdle — possibly only a scrap of 
Fuegian fur — or whatever might chance to be the custom 
of their country. So had they been brought up in other 
civilized society they might well have been Buddhists, 
Mohammedans — or perhaps even Mormons. Indeed they 
would have accepted readily the dogmas and complied 
with the tenets of such so-called prevailing religion. They 
would have conformed to its rites and ceremonies — with 
the like complacency and with as little question, solicitude 
or anxiety — as they now do to Christianity. 

By an easy habit of mind they instinctively relegate all re- 
sponsibility in such matters to the care and management of a 
priesthood, or its representative or equivalent — whatsoever 
shape it may happen to wear — and turn their whole atten- 
tion to the practical affairs of this life. Indeed they seem 



1 46 R UMINA TIONS. 

to think that, were it otherwise, this world might stop 
moving onward, and simply go to pieces, for want of un- 
remitting attention to their sublunary affairs. 

Snobbery. 

The poorest, and least profitable investment a man 
can make, in his personal scheme of social conduct, is the 
sacrifice of anything good in himself to snobbery. There 
is no trick, in the game of daily life, for which one lays 
down so much and takes up so little as the round of the 
tuft-hunter. The entire fabric of his fortune is based 
upon a delusion, involving an underestimate of himself, 
and an exaggerated, if not wholly mistaken, valuation of 
the importance and the good will of others toward him. 
Snobbishness is the Pharisaism of manners. It is a social 
false pretence that usually makes a man or woman the 
dupe of his or her own servile hypocrisy. 

It is fostered, if not born, of the self-deceptive notion, 
that one may gain favor, innocently, of a real or supposed 
superior by voluntary humiliation. In truth it begets 
little beside contempt, where it expects good will, if not 
favor. It makes one a pack-horse to carry the burdens of 
an imperious master, without any substantial reward of pro- 
vender. The priests of Baal who minister at the altar where 
such votive sacrifices are offered, live by the altar. They 
devour the offerings, while secretly sneering, or at best 
smiling with pity, at the abasement and genuflexions of 
the voluntary victims of a paltry cheat. A single spark 
of manly independence would consume the whole gossa- 
mer contrivance and dispel the illusion. 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 1 47 

Popular Delusion. 

It is a mortifying affliction for a sensitive man to be 
obliged to dwell in a community where some common 
delusion concerning vital matters — such as touch life and 
death,, morals and law — prevails, but in which he cannot 
honestly participate. You may be compelled to appear 
either a hypocrite or an enigma — or else possibly a pariah 
—to the moral sense of many of your neighbors or asso- 
ciates, and perhaps even of your friends. For, ultimately, 
your skepticism or disbelief will be found out — however 
well-guarded and unobtrusive your incredulity may be — 
and your reputation for integrity, perhaps for common 
honesty, will suffer, if it be not wholly undermined and 
destroyed. 

Nothing short of the grave is so relentless as blind and 
undemonstrable moral or religious conviction. More es- 
pecially is this true, where such conviction does not rest 
at all upon facts, evidence, or reason, but draws its entire 
aliment from family tradition, early training, childish asso- 
ciation, personal assumption, or external popular opinion. 
To doubt the thoroughness or rationality of such convic- 
tion is to insult its possessor. To invite an argument, 
or to offer a reason, against such conviction, is very likely 
to expose one's self to ridicule or obloquy, if not to ostra- 
cism, persecution, or social contempt. 

Insanity. 

Why do insane people so commonly rush to self-destruc- 
tion ? By what juggle of morbid imagination is life led to 
take away life ? Is it nature's shortest cut to relief from 



1 48 R UMINA TIONS. 

insupportable agony ? Does it require unclouded reason 
to preserve that calm equanimity without which life may 
lose its charm, and the natural love of life lapse from 
being merely : — 

weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, 

until it becomes a condition of unbearable torment ? Or 
is desire for suicide the natural tendency of life, whenever 
the understanding, for any cause, fails to exert itself tow- 
ard self-preservation ? 

Is it not rather because the absence of reason in a man 
(or its logical or illogical working from false premises or 
assumptions) throws the machinery of life out of gear ? 
Something seems to put him out of all sound and true 
relations with common things and with his fellow-men, so 
that his strange isolation becomes morally intolerable. 
Possibly, it is nature's merciless method of discarding 
what has became hopelessly useless in the economy of the 
social world. A too brutal suggestion ! At least, how- 
ever, it is better to think of, as a theory, than the sneer of 
the pessimist, who finds in this human enigma a case 
where extremes meet — because both reason and unrea- 
son alike point to the worthlessness of life. 

Procrastination. 

Procrastination, though a privilege of old age, is a vice 
in the young and a crime in a man who is in the full ma- 
turity of his powers. The wilful procrastinator is, how- 
ever, subject to a constant intermittent fever of remorse. 
His special sin is ever and anon arising, like a spectre, 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. I49 

before his mind, to reproach him for neglect of lost oppor- 
tunity. Relief comes to him only from his continually 
recurring promises of reform. He bristles with good 
resolutions, perennial but ephemeral. Always he is going 
to begin soon. This covenant with himself becomes a 
real, riay, the chief source of consolation to him for his 
neglect. He never performs the compact, yet he fancies 
he intends to do so, at some time. The elation of spirits, 
caused by his worthy resolve, operates either as a counter- 
irritant, or a sedative. It allays his compunctious self- 
reproach for laziness, vacillation, and consequently 
growing infirmity of will, so long as he remains under the 
temporary spell and soothing influence of his brittle pro- 
mise of doing better in future. The exhilaration subsides, 
memory stumbles, and delay rules. Then another spasm 
of regret brings on an access of hurry, which, as every- 
body knows, is the twin brother of procrastination, and 
its rival in making mental disturbance and bad work. 

Social Temper. 

It happens, not unfrequently, that men of eminence — 
especially in a professional career — who have been ascet- 
ics, solitary and perhaps habitually morose, all their lives, 
as they approach old age, become social, genial, and 
generally companionable. It appears as if, in the prime 
of life, they had found enough of social fellowship in their 
ambitions and business affairs ; or in their real conflicts 
or co-operations with men — or in work, studies, ideas, or 
abstractions — and had disdained to waste their precious 
hours in petty social distractions. 



1 50 R UMINA TIONS. 

However, as time has loosened their grip upon the 
means of achieving the great ends of life first set before 
themselves, they seem to soften towards humanity in par- 
ticular. As their hearts now begin to lean again toward 
childhood, they can find something lovable in concrete 
human nature, and can pick up a few grains of real happi- 
ness, in mere friendly, or even cordial, association w T ith 
other men. Especially do such men incline to cordiality 
with their juniors, whom they have, through life, been ac- 
customed to reckon greatly their inferiors in intellectual 
stature or accomplishments, and to snub, or ignore except 
as mere counters in the game of life. 

Self-Estimation. 

While it may be better in most cases that our self-esti- 
mate should be accurate and just, if possible, yet in 
guiding our conduct it is safer sometimes to pitch our 
moral self-valuation a little above, as it is wiser to drop 
our mental self-esteem a little below even what appears 
correct to our own eyes. Perhaps we ought to allow, as 
it were, somewhat for a refraction of intellectual light in 
the latter case, and as much for a sort of attraction of 
gravitation in the former. An over-estimate of our moral 
worth — consistently maintained, without priggish self- 
conceit — will not unfrequently make up for something of 
its deficiency in fact, by first assuming, as is said, a virtue 
not originally possessed. In this respect the character, 
with due humility, may grow sometimes up to the high 
ideal, which, in self-flattery, we have claimed to be the 
real bloom of its native quality. A lofty sense of intrinsic 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 151 

personal merit may— if rigidly restrained from ostenta- 
tion — thus become a fructifying element of better things 
to come. So much wiser is it, as the preacher tells us, to 
look up and not down, in the practical conduct of life, 
and to endeavor to acquire, by habit, whatever elements 
of nobleness may be lacking in our native composition. 

Mental Indolence. 

Mental indolence in men is merely a bad habit arising 
from injudicious self-indulgence. Yet it is often com- 
parative merely, and dependent upon degrees of natural 
nimbleness of intellect — upon the amount of fertility, 
quickness, and versatility of mind each one possesses. 
What is, in fact, inexcusable sloth in one man, may be 
real activity in another. There are many men whose 
minds are eager, rapacious, and, as it were, omnivorous. 
There are others, with like inducements, who are sluggish, 
receptive of but few ideas at a time, and who must hold 
these a long time under observation in order fully to pos- 
sess them. Some men will analyze a thought, adjust it to 
their own preconceptions, deduce another from it, and 
perhaps even formulate a third arising out of this process 
of assimilation, while other men are simply deliberating 
whether it be worth while to give common hospitality to 
the idea first suggested. 

Retaliation. 

For some natures it is easier to return good for evil, 
than merely to check a feeling of resentment, and pre- 
serve equanimity. The latter method of meeting aggressive 



152 R UMINA TIONS. 

wilful injury is simple rectitude. It is based on self-respect 
or pride of character, implies subjection of passion or 
temper, and is largely intellectual. The former may find 
support in gratification of the feeling that such conduct 
pours coals of fire on the head of the offender. It surely 
is a mode of gratifying the feeling of resentment ; and is 
not unfrequently a mark rather of temper than of charity 
or love. Indeed, it is sometimes a cunning mode of sting- 
ing an enemy by disguised retaliation for suffered wrong. 

Toleration. 

Toleration, or liberality of sentiment toward a depar- 
ture from strictness of moral rectitude, or toward an 
unsound opinion, may be a virtue or a vice, accordingly 
as our judgment proceeds from a high or low standard of 
morality or intelligence in ourselves. If a bad man be 
tolerant towards a wrong-doer, possibly he is seeking 
merely to justify himself. But if a good man be chari- 
table toward evil, or those who are responsible for its 
mischief, such toleration or liberality will usually spring 
out of the kindness of his heart or the breadth of his 
understanding, or perhaps from both. 

Giving Offence. 

Beware of badinage or equivocal pleasantries with 
stupid people. There are men to whom it is dangerous 
to give offence — however trivial — even accidentally. 
Their penetration into the character and motives of others 
is so dull, they must be treated as we treat dumb animals, 



TO UCHES OF NA TURE. 1 5 3 

whose invincible dislike we often incur without knowing 
it — with no power of reconciliation. To apologize to 
them for levity is full of difficulty and embarrassment. To 
explain to them our innocent drollery or inadvertence, or 
misdirected good will, is impossible. 

Respect of Mankind. 

Sympathy and kindness easily beget friendship among 
congenial people. Even love may be inspired generally 
by coaxing and gentle assiduity. But, as a rule, respect 
from the mass of mankind — I say nothing of esteem — 
must be compelled. Power and energy of will, whether 
openly exercised or tacitly recognized, always command 
respect. Perhaps, because an element of fear is also in- 
volved. 

Mental Variety. 

Some striking characteristic trait predominates over all 
others in almost every one. It is plainly visible in very 
early youth. So far from its being true — as once was a 
favorite theory — that all men are naturally alike, it is a 
common experience to find (even in the same family, 
where all are subject to substantially an identical environ- 
ment) an idler, a dreamer, a poet, a philosopher, a 
mechanic, a thinker, and a lover-of-action purely — or one 
who is content with nothing but wild adventure. 

Passing Events. 

The signal events of our lives often affect us more 
deeply afterwards, than while they are occurring. Some- 



154 & UMINA TIONS. 

times the suddenness of the shock seems to stun us and 
benumb our faculties. At other times the mind feels 
itself incapable of grasping what has recently happened, 
or of comprehending it with its most important bearings. 
Long afterwards — when our mental and moral equilibrium 
is restored — we know it better. 

Troubles of the Brain. 

Work and love are two panaceas for mental suffering, 
that have saved more lives from shipwreck than any other 
alleviations. The first belongs properly to man, and the 
other to woman ; but they are often interchanged. Per- 
haps this is because in some men the womanly nature, 
and in some women the manly nature, is originally the 
stronger or comes to predominate, by habit. 

Self-Control. 

Self-restraint is the first law, or lesson, of civilization. 
It should be taught to the infant in the cradle, and prac- 
tised even on the death-bed. Men, women, and children 
are fitted for personal association together, only in pro- 
portion as they are proficient in their submissiveness in 
this social obligation. This proposition is just as true as 
its correlative, that self-defence is the first law of nature. 
We must each reconcile them as we can. 

Opinions. 

Men and women have mere understanding, much alike. 
Man has judgment, while woman has tact and intuition, 



TOUCHES OF NATURE. 155 

Man thinks, woman ruminates ; man reasons, woman 
guesses ; man deduces, woman divines. 

Courage. 

There is a courage of passion — like that of animals at 
bay when their life is assailed. But there is a higher in- 
tellectual courage of the will and reason that stands up 
for right — personal or general — at all times when a 
champion is needed. 




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EVERY-DAY TALK. 

The plain highway of talk. 

Merchant of Venice. 

Truth. 

T this period of the world a full-grown man's 
intellectual and moral development — in re- 
spect to his just relation to the past, present or 
future, and as to what pithily might be called 
the conduct of his soul, involving not merely his under- 
standing but also all his mental and moral faculties as well 
as his spiritual nature — lies not so much in learning merely 
what others know, as it does in unlearning what he has 
been mistaught involuntarily — or in stripping off and dis- 
carding what might be said to be the traditionary husks of 
his environment. Until he is able to discover how much 
of the body of laws and customs, civil and social, prevail- 
ing among the members of the society in which he lives, 
is local and temporary — or purely artificial and arbitrary, 
or rooted in mere superstition, or drawn from mistaken 
analogies, or grown up out of ignorance, groundless 
assumption, and baseless imagining — he cannot be free to 
choose between the true and the false, or to act indepen- 
dently and according to nature and right reason, 

j 5 6 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 57 

For many men, even when bold and strong, it is the 
work of a life-time to emancipate themselves from the 
shackles of erroneous patrimonial ideas. Few ever actually 
attain the full enjoyment of real freedom of soul in a 
broad and comprehensive way. Those who believe they 
do so are compelled sometimes to hide from the world's 
too close scrutiny the liberty of opinion they secretly 
enjoy — lest they call upon their heads a fate not unlike 
that of the historic martyrs to this right of private 
judgment. The vast majority of mankind, knowing 
nothing better, die slaves to prejudice, or common 
opinion, and are buried in the manacles in which they 
were born. 

In moments of depression, or partial mental obscuration, 
men have been led sometimes almost to doubt whether 
the unflinching, unlimited, indiscriminate, reckless pursuit 
of what we call " truth " be really an unmixed good. 
How small a portion of the human family are fitted by 
cultivation, training and occupation, or even moral eleva- 
tion, to receive or to be trusted freely with it in its naked- 
ness ! Presented, as it usually is, in a fragmentary condi- 
tion, it often rudely discrowns the regency of some strong 
predilection or illusion, some favorite habit, some petted 
and indulged personal peculiarity, some loved association, 
or, what is often more powerful, some controlling passion 
or interest. Error, despite its hideous mien, when it has 
become endeared to us by familiarity of association, has 
also frequently a sort of well-known infatuating fascina- 
tion, growing out of its very character for danger-breed- 
ing and even its forbiddenness. Then, too, so far as the 
immediate eye can see, the prevalence of what some of the 



158 R UMINA T10NS. 

wisest believe to be " truth " necessarily involves serious 
mischief— or, at least, the destruction of a present tolerable 
condition of things, without offering us a better, or even 
a passably good substitute. 

The only consolatory refuge in our dilemma lies in the 
assumption that truth is for all time ; that our present 
misfortune is to be reckoned as absolutely nothing in a 
contrast with the broad claims of countless future aeons 
yet in store for the teeming human race ; that truth alone 
is imperishable ; and that all things in conflict with it 
must pass away — useful or tolerable in their day only as 
humble stepping-stones to firmer ground and higher 
things. This, however, is a hard doctrine to teach contem- 
porary mankind, nearly all of whom live only for them- 
selves and the things of their day — not caring to sacrifice 
their interests or even their pleasures for the sake of an 
unborn race, that shall spring out of an incalculable 
future. 

And indeed it does seem sometimes to many as if — 
when the alleged discovery of some moral truth threatens 
to take away the established safeguards or amenities of 
this life — it might be time to stop and wait for the race 
to grow up to the already proffered new ideas, before 
more of the like nature shall be evolved. Should such 
a state of social chaos supervene, it may cost too much 
blood and treasure to reconstruct a systematic happy 
social life again. 

The bold adventures of our day into the void of agnos- 
ticism, or into the obscure sea of natural religion with its 
fathomless psychology, or into the civil chaos of socialism, 
suggest these dangers ahead. But they will not be heeded. 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 59 

The pursuit after truth — once hedged and made dangerous 
by kings and popes with their convenient dungeons, 
tortures, and assassinations — now goes comparatively un- 
challenged in many communities either by superstition or 
force, or legal or social proscription. Hence its discover- 
ers, real or pretended, travail and wander widely, often 
seeming, however, to cry out " Lo here ! " and " Lo there ! " 
when the new-found city of delight is only a mirage. But 
time, we may be assured, will cure all this — however much 
it may destroy, in its path, of our possessions as well as of 
ourselves. 

Every age of the world has, in some degree, its own 
peculiar idea of what is the reality of things in this life ; 
what are appearances only ; what is the significance of life 
and of ourselves, as well as of our relations to each other, 
and to those who have gone before and those who shall 
follow ; — why we were born, live, err, struggle, enjoy, 
suffer, hope or despair, and die. Yet each age, if times 
past may be separated into definite periods, differs in vital 
substance from its predecessor — largely rejecting as folly, 
what once popularly had prevailed, meanwhile passing 
for both truth and wisdom. 

Few men too are so entirely steadfast — amid all the 
fluctuations of opinion that history or even the apparent 
demonstrations of the present day exhibit — as to have no 
misgivings whatever. They are liable to be troubled 
sometimes with doubt lest, while struggling to emancipate 
mankind from error, they shall be themselves, in turn, after 
all, the unwary victims of some moral delusion. Much 
as it has been the fashion, among our pulpit-teachers, to 
deride that significant expression, it was doubtless the echo 



l6o RUMINATIONS. 

of some wild and hopeless cry — forever before and since 
reverberating in the desolate chambers of many a human 
heart — when that obstinate Roman vice-governor asked : — 
"What is truth ?" It consoles us very little to be told 
that, some millions of years hence, the human race may 
grow to such a moral stature as to be able to know and to 
comprehend it. Like the dying statesman we " want the 
fact — the fact "; and we want it now. 

Queries About Beauty. 

Beauty is truth, truth beauty. 

Keats. 

Since the earliest recognition of aesthetic philosophy, 
human ingenuity has been agog to tell us what is the 
essence of the beautiful. Grossly speaking we appear to 
grasp the beautiful, as a property of matter, by only two 
of our senses. But Taste puts in a claim as a faculty for 
perceiving a world of beauty beyond the explorations of 
eye or ear. What then is such beauty ? Lord Jeffrey in 
his famous essay gives us what he calls u rather explana- 
tions of the word than definitions of the thing it signifies, ,, 
by saying it is that "property in objects by which 
they are recommended to the power or faculty of taste — 
the reverse of ugliness — the primary or more general 
objects of admiration. ,, He then takes more than twenty 
quarto pages of fine print to prove that he does not mean 
anything by what he has said — but that beauty is entirely 
dependent upon association. If this indeed were all, and 
beauty dwelt only in " objects," we might well trust the 



E VERY-DAY TALJt. l6l 

eye and ear — aided perhaps by memory — to comprehend 
the whole of it. 

But few are willing to believe the domain of the beauti- 
ful is limited by form, color, and sound, without reference 
to imagination and judgment. For what, then, should 
we call the ideas in poetry and art that appeal to our in- 
tangible sense of the beautiful, and thrill, warm, soothe, 
elevate, or, in any manner, stir the passions?* Does 
beauty exist in the soul ? Has the mind two or more 
senses — like those of the body — that perceive ideals of 
beauty, as the eye and ear perceive objects? If mind be 
simply an attribute of an animal body, have dumb animals 
a faculty of taste to some degree ? Even a well-bred 
horse will sometime seem to enjoy the prospect of a 
beautiful landscape. But if mind be more than a peculiar 
property of some combination of living matter, if 
imagination be in some sense an independent power, 
then what such faculties alone perceive as truly may be 
said to exist, as the objects which we know and realize 
only through our physical organs. 

Yet, after all, what is beauty ? Is it a thing or is it an 
illusion — a personal impression not reducible to any 
infallible standard ? Is it simply a product of associations, 
and therefore diverse as circumstances about which men 
cannot be expected to agree ? Or is it something perfect 
in itself, but only for the most part imperfectly perceived ? 
Is not a colorless crystal sphere, when seen in a clear 
light, beautiful to every human eye ? Are not some simple 
musical sounds so universally recognized as beautiful 
that even most dumb animals, really or feignedly, are 
touched and moved by them ? Was there ever a human 



1 62 R UMINA TIONS. 

being — not blind — who did not, at some time in his life, 
think a rainbow beautiful ? 

Socrates is said to have argued, that beauty arises out 
of our sense of fitness and adaptation, and that it is im- 
possible a thing beautiful for its color should also be 
beautiful for its sound. Yet there may be an affinity be- 
tween sight and hearing unperceived by the ordinary 
exercise of our faculties. A friend once told me of his 
being waked from a dream of walking through a gallery 
of grand and exquisitely beautiful statuary, by the sounds 
of a fine serenade under his window. Leibnitz, we are 
informed, insisted that our appreciation of the beautiful 
arises out of a desire of the mind for perfection in every- 
thing it contemplates. An ingenious and learned con- 
temporary fancies he has discovered that beauty is 
founded in morality ; and that nothing false or wrong in 
human life can be beautiful. Others seem to think none 
but the imaginative have any native notion of real beauty. 
As one puts it : — " The white light of truth, in traversing 
the many-sided transparent soul of the poet, is refracted 
into iris-hued poetry/' For what is the essence of poetry 
beyond verbal expression in suggestion of the beautiful? 
Let us digress to answer briefly. 

Of course the basis of poetry — as of all pure literature 
— is thought; or the intellectual evolution of aesthetic 
truth. As Coleridge says, the antithesis of poetry is 
science, not merely prose. In its essence it is rather an 
idealization of concrete fact or an imaginative embodi- 
ment of abstract truth. Such fact is not ascertained by 
scientific discovery ; nor is such truth deduced by a 
logical process on the part of the poet. They come to 



EVERY-bAY TALK. 1 63 

him out of his intense love of the beautiful and strong 
desire for perfection in everything. He arrives at poetic 
truth by some creative, or reproductive, power of intui- 
tion, insight, or clairvoyance of his mind and heart ; 
through his imagination or fancy, his feelings or passions. 
The expression of poetry in verse is — like music — some- 
what an affair of the senses but chiefly a matter of form ; 
yet by virtue of its cadence and rhyme this form is so 
inextricably mingled with its substance as to become a 
necessary part of it, in its perfect state. Its effect upon 
reader or hearer is not only mental and psychological, but 
also physical and magnetic. Proper expression of poetry 
involves the possession and exercise of the power of in- 
vention and the faculty of taste ; — a musical ear, a 
facility in the use of imagery or metaphor, together with 
the employment of rhythmical and appropriate language. 
The charm of poetic diction, like the magic of poetic 
thought, is difficult to define ; but they are twin factors 
in the production of what all the world calls poetry. 

Goethe said to Eckermann : — " I cannot help laughing 
at the aesthetic folk who torment themselves in endeavor- 
ing, by some abstract words, to reduce to a conception 
that inexpressible thing to which we give the name of 
beauty. Beauty is a primeval phenomenon which itself 
never makes its appearance, but the reflection of which 
is visible in a thousand different utterances of the creative 
mind, and is as various as nature herself." 

So we come back to our starting-point — as much in the 
dark as ever ! We shake our heads, with wise significance, 
and conclude, with Goethe, that beauty is a " primeval 
phenomenon " the essence of which is inexplicable. 



1 64 R UMINA TIONS. 

Of Beauty, what can art or science know ? 
Its essence in the matter or the mind ? 
Is this a trick of sense, a raree-show, 
Or something that the soul itself must find ? 

Is it a primal force of human life, 
A light auroral on a trackless sea — 
Beyond the scope of analytic strife 
Refulgent — an eternal verity ? 

The gliding of a bird aloft in air, 

The circlets in a pool a pebble makes, 

The water sparkling mid the billows, where 

The sun shines and the tossing wave-crest breaks ; 

The motion of a full-sailed ship at sea, 
The hissing of the frothy waves on rocks, 
The twisting breakers on the distant lee, 
The surf that splinters with tumultuous shocks ; 

The imaged mountains, clouds and leaves, in lakes, 
The sighs of strains seolian from trees, 
A radiance the moon in summer takes, 
A star that glitters in the wintry breeze ; 

The myriad charming colors, shapes, and sounds, 
Kind Nature fills this teeming world withal, 
Not these, O Beauty, thy enchaining bounds : 
Thy deeps most answer to our spirit's call. 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 65 

Imagination, fancy, thought, and care 
Evoke thy infinite variety ; 
Thou hast no limit in the earth or air, 
Thy treasures boundless as eternity. 

A Hint About Poetry. 

Perhaps after Sidney, Milton, Shelley, Goethe, Scho- 
penhauer, and so many others have discoursed almost 
exhaustively about the art of poetry, it may be thought 
idle — at least for the unprofessional — to talk further. But 
like love, poetry being an idealization of fact, the subject 
is always near us, and never wholly tiresome to every- 
body — however superficially, or even iterantly, one may 
speak of it. 

If one might be allowed to judge from the effusions 
now prevalent in newspapers and magazines, it would 
seem our early Colonial notion, that rhymic versification 
is the only essential element of distinction between poetry 
and prose, has survived to our day ; — not merely as a 
juvenile delusion, but as a wide popular faith. When to 
this persuasion is added the advanced idea, now current, 
that elliptical incoherence is the quintessence of poetical 
excellence, it may be well for some of us to resume our 
horn-books, and, by going back to first principles, to have 
a fresh reckoning of the matter. 

Schopenhauer says: — " Metre and rhyme are fetters ; but 
likewise a garment which the poet throws about him, and 
under which he is allowed to speak as he otherwise could 
not ; this is what delights us." But what formulas are 
essential to poetry, pure and simple ? If poetical inven- 



1 66 R UMINA TIONS. 



tion, imaginative ideas and passionate emotions be clearly 
and handsomely expressed, by fit words, suitable inci- 
dents, and congruous imagery, are they the less poetical, 
because they lack rhyme and metre ? 

Shall not a man, being possessed of the genius of a poet, 
communicate his poetical conceptions to the world, 
although (as Wordsworth says) he lack the accomplish- 
ment of verse ? Ought mere melody or numbers longer 
to be deemed the only element that is indispensably nec- 
essary to the popular notion of genuine poetry ? 

Could such mere expressions, as "winged words" or 
" laughing water," be other than poetical, without the 
factitious aid of metrical feet ? Does the cardinal dis- 
tinction between poetry and prose or science rest at all in 
blank or rhymic versification ? Is such outward clothing 
absolutely material to poetic thought, or is it chiefly valu- 
able as a charming, world-loved accessory — that ought 
not to be abused by using it as a lure for vacuity or a 
mask for disguising bald fact ? If one's thoughts and 
even images be wholly commonplace or matter of fact — 
or merely rudimentary, vague, evanescent, or simply in- 
comprehensible to both author and reader — shall the 
witchery of melody or the art of versification, however 
consummate of themselves, be held competent, through a 
popular hallucination, to transform such productions into 
poetry ? If beautiful or terrible ideas, incidents, images, 
situations, emotions and fancies, clearly conceived and 
coherently expressed in words appropriate to excite the 
imagination, or electrify the feelings, be written in the 
form of prose, it would seem they ought not, for that 
reason alone, to appear any the less poetical, even to the 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 67 

ordinary mind — or to be relegated to the lower plane of 
eloquence or mere rhetoric. Our English version of the 
Hebrew Bible furnishes too plain a contradiction to such 
a view ; either with or without its rhythmical dress. 

If honest prose be mellifluous in language and melodi- 
ous, in cadence, or even if the same ideas be expressed in 
harmonious verse, doubtless we may derive the more 
pleasure from reading them aloud. And perhaps too, 
there is even a sort of ear of the mind that can catch — 
through eye or memory — the melody of rhythmically-ex- 
pressed thought, without even the aid of vocal sound. But 
does not such pleasure, thus given, come wholly from the 
ear, either outward or inward ? Is not this charm the 
trick of a sense more than half physical, like the involun- 
tary motion of foot or hand on hearing the concord of 
familiar sounds ? Does it necessarily, of itself, involve 
the existence of intrinsic poetical merit in what is heard ? 
Does it really hit the poetic sense, or appeal to intuition 
or spiritual insight ? 

Possibly indeed, poetry ought always to be read aloud, 
in order to give us full assurance that we gather all its 
sense and beauty — of sound as well as of meaning. 
Nevertheless, may not one whose thoughts are intrinsically 
poetical still hopefully give them to the world as poetry 
— without dread of the critic, or of sinning against any 
inexorable law of belles lettres — although he be wholly 
incapable of verse, and even lack the achievement of 
melody in his prose diction ? 

Indeed would it not be more like fair dealing with the 
reading public if merely passional, or simply chaotic, 
versifiers— except as confessed song- writers — would more 



1 68 R UMINA TIONS. 

frequently discard poetical forms altogether ? Even if 
this test should prove sometimes to be suicidal to the 
author's fame, perhaps his experimental readers would 
suffer less from confusion of ideas, or enforced vacuity 
of mind. 

One other suggestion. May it not happen (through a 
more widely popular recognition of the apparent fact of 
musical versification not being an absolutely necessary 
element of the soul of poetry) that common authors — 
who have none or but a scanty allowance of the poetical 
faculty, either natural or acquired — can be brought to 
perceive that a talent for metrical composition is but a 
small part of the substance of the real poet's equipment ? 
Who does not know that bare prosaic ideas are too often 
made even absurd by putting them into rhymic verse — 
however respectable, as commonplaces, they might be, 
when methodically expressed without metre and rhyme ? 
In other words, does not a too popular impression that 
rhyme and metre are the supreme vital forces in poetic 
composition work evil in two ways ; — first, by keeping back 
from full expression many who have the vision divine, 
without the rhymer's art, and next, by bringing forward 
into deceitful prominence, crowds of impotent poetasters, 
whom the world would very willingly and profitably let 
die? 

None will gainsay the added charms Milton found in 
" soft Lydian airs," or Wordsworth in " wisdom," when 
" married to immortal verse." Doubtless too — as already 
suggested — there is a natural as well as traditional affinity 
between poetry and music — while the magic of song is a 
force that outstrips calculation, But a miscegenation of 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 69 

prosaic or chaotic ideas with harmonious sounds, however 
pleasing it may be to the undiscriminating ear, ought not 
to be allowed to confuse forever the too lenient popular 
mind, concerning the high lineage and noble office of pure 
and true poetry — without at least a continual protest. 

Ancestors. 

Paradoxical though it be, however inconsistent or even 
incomprehensible the dogmas of social usage or opinion 
may sometimes appear, it seldom happens that they are 
without a solid basis of good sense and real merit, grow- 
ing out of both utility and fitness. Especially is this true 
where they have been long maintained and are of substan- 
tially universal acceptance. To many — among the un- 
thinking or flippant of speech — it appears to be the mere 
arrogant efflorescence of an indisputable special possession 
when those born of distinguished ancestors make a claim 
of merit, attaching to their own persons, merely out of 
this circumstance. They are told it is based merely upon 
a common good opinion, toward which they have in no 
wise contributed, and the existence whereof depends 
wholly upon the past, in which they could not participate. 
Yet this hasty and superficial view has never made great 
headway in the social world. 

Much color as it may seem to have in reason, it over- 
looks too many obvious facts to depreciate seriously the 
advantage, and real value to society itself, of upholding 
the prestige of ancestral good repute. But in the side- 
glance here taken at this topic, all specific or direct influ- 
ence of the laws of heredity, the marvels of pedigree or 



1 70 je UMINA TIONS. 

of the amenities of high-breeding, is left purposely out 
of view. 

Perhaps the strongest trait of youth — and the one earliest 
to influence and spur both intellectual and moral faculties 
to exertion — is that of instinctive, unconscious imitation. 
Most valuable, to the ingenuous and aspiring mind, is a 
close companionship of, and easy opportunity to feed a 
natural admiration with good models. Where a young 
person has, upon his coming forward in the world, a social 
background, for character, of illustrious and highly culti- 
vated remote ancestors or immediate progenitors, he is the 
more readily influenced, almost unconsciously, to imitate 
the excellence of what is, by association, so near and dear 
to him. Even with those who are called " hard cases " 
this fact acts generally, at least, as a sort of counter- 
irritant to any innate latent depravity. None but those 
less fortunate in this respect can tell also how much the 
well-born save, or how little they necessarily waste, of 
mental or moral energy, by not having to grope about 
helplessly, during the early years of their studies, in a dim, 
intellectual twilight. They are spared from pursuing with 
vacillating purpose, either half -formed or ill-constructed 
patterns or designs held up for their imitation, or pursuit, 
by ignorant teachers. 

Few only of us in America have the right kind of in- 
structors, in ourselves or others, at the right moment in 
early life. Hitherto, most men among us, who have them- 
selves achieved excellence or celebrity, have struggled 
with early adversity, and have been substantially, and even 
elementarily, self-taught. They owed their opportuni- 
ties of real education largely to accidental circumstances 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 171 

or Supreme necessity and hard self-effort, but seldom to 
well-chosen, judiciously directed, outward, early intellect- 
ual training, association, and example. 

Myriads of men live and die obscurely — leading broken 
lives and with very little advantage to themselves or their 
racq — who justly might have obtained renown by adding 
greatly to the world's stock of knowledge and to its moral 
headway, but for the want of two elements of true or at 
least of rapid success in life. First, they have lacked 
an early start, in the right direction, to arouse energy and 
desire to excel in noble conduct ; next, they have failed 
for want of persistent push in pursuit of valuable aims. 
Many of this large body have had no distinguished ances- 
tors, the influence of whose good repute could have 
supplied directly, at least, one of these deficiencies. The 
other might have followed naturally from healthy, well- 
directed ambition. Such men were not generally, indeed, 
moulded from that material of which renowned ancestors 
are made in the first instance. Doubtless, they were defi- 
cient in the original energy and the fiery nature required 
to make the Rudolphs or Napoleons of a new line of 
sovereigns. Yet many of them— now lost to mankind — 
might well have swelled the ranks of that great second 
class, by whom most of the useful work of this world is 
accomplished — besides perhaps tasting the supreme 
happiness of a better managed life. 

In painful contrast, however, to these general observa- 
tions, is the commonly recognized fact, that, from some 
obscure cause, parental conspicuousness — when derived 
only from the possession of wealth, or mere power of place, 
in American life — so often demoralizes or deteriorates the 



1 72 R UMINA TIONS. 

succeeding generation, and unfits it for noble life? It 
must perhaps be conceded that, in our new communities, 
transmitted ancestral distinction is too often the means of 
weakening the motives for personal exertion among the 
offspring of distinguished families. Although it may- 
polish the manners, just as surely it seems to enervate the 
brain. Nevertheless, as our society grows older — and our 
well-born, leisure-loving class shall increase in numbers 
— the necessity of self-exertion, to keep in honored posi- 
tion among so many darlings of fortune, will become more 
pressing, and may furnish a more urgent stimulus to the 
rising generation among them for earning, themselves, the 
laurels they so greatly desire to wear. 

Gossip and Autobiography. 

A love of personal gossip is inborn with the common 
mass of people. It seems, however, to be most fascinating 
to those who find but little of what is substantial in the 
outer world of things within their reach, and less within 
themselves, that is interesting to their tastes or inclina- 
tions. Tattling busy-bodies of this class, who cannot 
restrain their impertinent curiosity and meddling imperti- 
nence, are well typified by the man in the familiar play 
who, when told to mind his own business, meekly said 
there was " so little of it " he had an abundance of leisure 
for the affairs of other people. 

In a large city this fondness for gossip usually finds so 
much of absorbing interest in the petty, social vicissitudes 
of many conspicuous people, that it is less apt to meddle 
in the private affairs of an immediate neighbor. Hence 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 73 

city-people are sometimes called selfish and unsocial. In 
smaller towns and villages the dwellers are much more 
"sociable," as they call it. This expression, however, 
usually means, in homely phrase, that every man's finger 
is constantly in every other man's pie. 

Our instinctive appetite for private details of other in- 
dividual lives is doubtless the chief cause of the insatiable 
popular demand for autobiographical memoirs, and letters 
of men and women of distinction. Our interest in the 
lives of ordinary people, of whom but little is contempo- 
raneously known, usually ceases when they die. They are 
soon forgotten — except where we hold some personal 
relation to them, or they are closely connected with our 
family history, or some event or scene in which we feel 
a special concern. Where, however, men or women, by 
their lives, actions, writings, or speech, have once excited 
the sympathy, admiration, romantic interest, or even ill- 
will of contemporary mankind in general, they continue 
long in memory to survive their mortal existence. 

Each new detail of their private lives, like every per- 
sonal anecdote of them, forms a sort of nucleus for fresh 
interest — tending to excite a kind of second-handed curi- 
osity and a desire for more. These memorabilia pass from 
one person to another, quite as often by speech as by 
writing. As each narrator adds or alters a little — from 
defective memory or lively imagination, or zeal to make 
a good story — the tale grows by what it feeds upon, until 
the fable is often more widely popular, and better known, 
than the true history. 

Later, another class, chiefly composed of writers, take 
up the heterogeneous mass, and strive, by analytical 



1 74 R UMINA TIONS. 

criticism or sifting of evidence, to deduce what is prob- 
able, if not certain, as well as to discard what is incon- 
sistent and apparently fictitious. This process itself 
makes endless talk and more curiosity — stimulating the 
natural hunger for more minute biographical details. The 
result is a general impression in the popular mind that 
the truth in such matters lies at the bottom of the well, if 
anywhere, and only by constant diving — whether by ex- 
perts or volunteers — one can hope to find it. This notion 
brings forward many divers and more bidders for what is 
brought up from these depths. 

To these circumstances may be added the fact — of which 
none are ignorant — that men are seldom able to speak 
frankly or colorlessly when discoursing of themselves. 
There is always something concealed — often from mod- 
esty or even more creditable motives, such as sparing 
the feelings or good fame of contemporaries. But perhaps 
not seldom this suppression of fact comes through a de- 
sire to appear well, or to avoid increasing the importance 
of others. Besides, in self-portraiture, generally some 
rainbow tints are added involuntarily from self-delusion 
to the picture, that heighten its effect. 

Some will have it, that, as a rule, men cannot possibly 
speak the whole unvarnished truth, when themselves form 
the subject of comment. However this may be, from 
some or all of the causes mentioned (and others that 
easily suggest themselves, to both the good and ill-natured) 
there is no book so eagerly read, or likely so long to re- 
main among our household favorites, as one which' pur- 
ports to contain matter of sincere, artless, full, literal, 
uncolored, autobiographical details (even of persons of 



E VER Y-DA V TALK. 1 75 

little public distinction) having no apparent effect in view- 
in its composition, beyond an honest narration of un- 
adorned facts. 

Such frank memorials as the plain common-sense sketch 
of the early life of Dr. Franklin, written by himself, or 
even the Dutch-like painting, of the morbid egoism and 
fevered thirst for fame, of that unhappy little savage, 
Marie Bashkirtseff, will continue to find innumerable 
readers — at least until human nature is changed, or that 
special civilizing of their simple human nature which 
gave them conspicuousness is wholly outgrown, or has 
become otherwise obsolete. 

Doing Nothing. 

Until lately this specialty has been accounted among 
Americans, fortunately, as one of the lost arts. To be 
idle, like a stone or a dozing animal, may be possible for 
a stupid person, whose highest aspiration is only to sleep 
and feed. But for a man of good health and sound mind 
to have neither an object in view beyond the pleasure of 
the hour, nor any aim or stake in the future, and to be 
wholly content with all things as they are, in our transi- 
tional social condition, is not easy. 

Never to be eager or excited or deeply interested about 
what shall be done or omitted in public affairs — mean- 
while keeping clear of all reformatory schemes : to be 
able to turn a deaf ear to all solicitations that one shall 
come before the public, however unostentatiously, in good 
works : to resist even the allurements of vanity and a 
natural love for the expressed good-will of our neighbors 



I j6 £ UMINA T/OJVS. 

and acquaintances, or the world at large : to disdain the 
blandishments of committeemen and trustees, who are 
forever prowling about among the quiet nooks of social 
life — where men who love their ease are prone to congre- 
gate — seeking whom they may trepan into their seductive 
coils and enslave to hard labor, for the remnant of life : 
to repress the promptings of a warm heart, a generous 
liberal, charitable, mankind-loving disposition : to close 
one's eyes to the multitudinous accidents, wants, and mis- 
eries that are constantly bringing those one loves or 
esteems into temporary trouble — out of which one can, 
without very great sacrifice, lift them up to light-hearted- 
ness and content : to give one's self wholly to one's love 
of following one's own idle wish, and doing or omitting 
to do only as one pleases with one's own time and re- 
sources for mere pleasurable dalliance — regardless of the 
inward promptings of one's daimon : to live forgetful of 
others, and in the enjoyment of undisturbed appreciation 
of stagnant self, and of one's own imaginary virtues, or 
cloying pleasures : to ignore what others are pleased to 
call the claims of society upon our exertions : to forget 
what might trouble one in a remembrance of the appall- 
ing spectres of things that ought to be done, while philo- 
sophically, and with shiftless composure, putting off, until 
a distant receding to-morrow, that which the good of 
others, or the orderly administration of affairs entrusted 
to our care, demands to be done to-day : to shirk grace- 
fully, or — with an affectionate and bewildering complais- 
ance—to shove off from our own shoulders, and cause to 
sit with an attractive lightness upon the shoulders of our 
neighbor, those burdens of care, duty, labor, anxiety, pri- 



E VERY-DAY TALK. IJJ 

vation, annoyance, loss, expense and other sacrifices, 
which are our own, by birthright or other necessity, or 
perhaps by a self-imposed obligation — possibly as the 
bitter compensation for the sweet juice you have already 
extracted from some nut you volunteered to take as a 
whole, yet reject, now that you have enjoyed all you found, 
easily extracted, purely enjoyable, succulent and tooth- 
some, contained in it :— these are brief hints of some of 
the things necessary to be done by most of us, who would 
do nothing. 

It is indeed no trivial task, for a live man, long to per- 
sonate the fiction of a cadaver without becoming a real 
one. You might as well expect a running mill to stop 
moving, while the water is falling upon its wheel, as look 
among us for idleness in a well-constituted man. You 
may cease to fill the hopper with grain, but the mill-stones 
will continue to go around. And if they find nothing 
better to grind, they will wear out themselves. The only 
way of arresting the motion is to break the connection, 
and to take off the power. 

If a real vital man would do nothing and be happy in 
American life he must benumb his mental faculties, he 
must harden his heart, he must isolate himself from the 
sympathies of his race, he must cherish selfishness as his 
chief good, resign himself to the complete domination of 
his lower nature, and perhaps dwell chiefly down in the 
slough of merely physical pleasures — until satiety shall 
so narrow the border-line between life and death, that he 
is scarcely conscious which side of it he would prefer, if 
he had the energy to make a choice, unless indeed (as the 
moralist would say) by some happy convulsion of his re- 



178 R CI MI N A TIONS. 

bellious and outraged nature (before his second youth has 
passed) he shall have broken away from his thraldom, 
and, with thrice-armed resolution, risen to an upper air. 
Exchanging thus soul-eating selfishness for a larger life, 
he may attain perchance a better outlook for the real 
enjoyment of existence. 

A Peep at Fine Art. 

When Guido sent to Rome his famous picture of St. 
Michael, painted for the Church of the Capuchins, he 
wrote to the Pope's steward these words : — " I wish I 
had the wings of an angel, to have ascended into Para- 
dise, and there to have beheld the forms of beatified 
spirits, from which I might have copied my Archangel ; 
but not being able to mount so high, and it being vain for 
me to search for his resemblance here below, I was forced 
to make an introspection into my own mind, and to have 
recourse to that idea of beauty which I had formed in my 
imagination, for a prototype." 

To the uninstructed observer, there seem to be at the 
least two leading methods by which the artistic instinct 
moves in the direction of self-development, and a reali- 
zation of its inclination and aims. The one is chiefly 
imaginative — the other is much more matter-of-fact. The 
first prevails where the artist clearly conceives an ideal, 
and works confidently toward producing it. Although, 
while to his imagination the thing prefigured may con- 
stantly become more perfected in mass and outline as 
well as in detail, it may yet, in execution, steadily recede 
from his grasp as he strives to approach it. The other 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 79 

method is common where the artist sees some work of 
man he considers fit for imitation — in whole or in part or 
by modification — or some object in nature he hopes to 
represent, in some of its aspects, precisely as it appears 
to his actual eye, complete in all its parts. 

The first, poet-like, moving from within, seems to be 
inspired by an instinctive love of abstract beauty or fit- 
ness ; and strives to reproduce in actual form, color, or 
composition, or all combined, some phases of a representa- 
tion of a genuine and pure conception, unembarrassed by 
accidental or transitory accessories. The other is im- 
pelled from without, and appears to seek a reproduction 
— perhaps even with microscopic fidelity — of some actual 
and material object, in such seemingly palpable form that 
the bodily sense can almost grasp it as a tangible thing. 
He appeals only to the understanding and the practical 
senses — unlike the former — leaving little or nothing to 
the cognizance of mere imagination, spiritual insight, or 
perhaps even to the finer aesthetic sense, of a spectator. 

In the beginning this latter one has the larger crowd of 
sincere admirers. His work strikes the understanding or 
common-sense of appreciation of the present multitude. 
It takes hold at once of the attention and interest of the 
ordinary mind. It reaches its highest credit and popu- 
larity within a limited period. Artists of this class, how- 
ever, having found the limit of their naturalistic domain, 
— as interpreters of nature — can only repeat themselves, 
or perhaps vary the stamp of individuality in their works 
by changing immaterial circumstances, or by departing 
arbitrarily from fact at the risk of violating artistic truth. 

When they begin to call upon their inward resources, 



1 80 R UMINA TIONS. 

they are prone to mistake conceit or fancy — or memory 
of fact— for real imagination, and, as their work pro- 
gresses — not having the clew of truth — it unavoidably 
runs by exaggeration towards the bizarre or, at least, the 
incoherent, and perhaps the grotesque. Instead of draw- 
ing, as it were, from an inexhaustible original spring, or 
even a pure stream, they recompose old materials upon 
the theory of imitation or reconstruction, but not of 
recreation and reproduction. They are constantly stum- 
bling against the impassable barriers of their limited ter- 
ritory — without ever overleaping them, or passing into the 
indefinite region of an ideal, beyond their natural limits. 
If they sometimes seem to attempt such a feat, it is only 
to lose themselves in an apparent terra incognita. 

But true art has no recognized bound to its field of 
vision — though it has many limitations to its power or 
means of reproducing its ideals of nature. It projects 
into the indefinite upon lines starting from a real centre ; 
and, so far as it may go, one step prepares the way for 
another, while its progress is always toward perfection. 
Even when it betrays how much it is unavoidably ham- 
pered, by its vehicle and method, or by the feebleness of 
human capacity to overcome its intrinsic impediments, it 
suggests to the mind some perfection beyond the reach of 
art. It leaves the intelligence of those who rightly see 
the depth and suggested insight of its works, to supple- 
ment what the pictorial, or plastic, or other art cannot 
specifically attain. 

If one could speak with the tongue of an artist, he 
might perhaps venture to point, for illustration of this 
common laic hint, to the recognized early, or progressive, 



E VERY-DAY TALK. l8l 

works of the best periods of Greek art, as an accomplished 
result of the purer method ; and to the marvellous imita- 
tion, or the grotesque extravagance, of some Japanese 
decorations, for an extreme, though natural, consequence 
of the other. 

A Well-Rounded Life. 

All the world agrees with Cicero that it is most sweet 
— toward the close of his career and during a cheerful 
old age — for a man to be able to rejoice in the soothing 
recollection of a life well-spent. 

From this point of vision it might be a pleasant, as well 
as a profitable task, for a well-equipped, philosophical 
poet of our time to portray an ideal, introspective auto- 
biography ; composed of the inner, or spiritual life as well 
as the cardinal experiences, of a man, brought up among 
and living philosophically through the vicissitudes of our 
empirical and unmethodical American society. 

Beginning with humble circumstances, he could emerge 
into larger intercourse with the world by slow degrees, yet 
always feeling within himself the mens divinior and the 
impulse to find out what was best for him to do in order 
to justify the fact of his creation. He might be shown 
discharging with fidelity the duties of life, and developing 
his faculties to the fullest extent commensurate with his 
circumstances, and accomplishing the best discovered 
purpose of human existence, by doing the greatest amount 
of good to and for others of his race — whether contem- 
poraneous or future — consistently with a fair enjoyment 
of life for himself. 



1 82 fi VMM A T/OATS. 

It should not be a vague abstraction, nor a tale of im- 
probable virtues, nor the portrait of a smug or of a prig. 
It ought to be the vertebrated story of a man of at least 
average capacity, with all the vagaries in temper and pas- 
sion of our mixed genealogies in his blood, and with mind 
and heart swayed by the multifarious, irregular influences 
that, in our crude but nascent civilization, most men among 
us encounter. Yet, by force of character, natural or ac- 
quired, and by a large leaven of common-sense and natural 
piety, he might, in the end, find out the right, redeeming 
himself from error, and keeping on in growth of wisdom 
and the busy practice of good conduct, as he ripens in 
years. In some of these excursions, the diffusive verbosity 
of Wordsworth's Prelude, despite its lofty poetry and 
descriptive eloquence, might perhaps teach the writer 
something to avoid. 

First, there would be his childhood, with its time of un- 
conscious impressions and mute wonder. Second, would 
appear his early youth when, dissatisfied with his haphaz- 
ard teachers, he was groping his anxious way, amid the 
darkness and pitfalls that beset the path of the beginning 
of all irregular self-education — before the instinct of a 
wise eclecticism is much developed. 

Third, would come out the category of his audacious 
opinions, or rather fragmentary views, largely made up 
from imperfect knowledge and irregular models, with mis- 
conception of the entirety of their significance ; his bold 
questioning of matters settled as fate, and his implicit 
confidence in the permanence of things ephemeral, or 
already waning to decay ; his defiant distrust of authority 
as it stands in the way of his pleasures, his aims or his 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 83 

ideal work ; and his blind and tame obedience to the 
commands of arrogant assumption ; or his acquiescence 
in ill-founded popular faiths. Then again, one might see 
his dismay and revulsion of feeling, as human nature dis- 
closes its deformity, or his chosen gods fall from their 
pedestals, or his seeming monumental land-marks, of right 
and wrong, crumble away — all these things breeding in 
his soul a paralyzing doubt whether, in truth, there be 
anything but — "what is not." 

Fourth, might be shown his ripening judgment and 
broadened love of his fellow-men despite their frailties, as 
his own middle age comes on ; his growing comprehen- 
siveness ; his recognition of some eternal fixed principles, 
of truth and religion, growing out of a conception of 
absolute necessity — founded upon the intrinsic nature and 
fitness of things ; his feeling that the ground is becoming 
solid and firm beneath his feet ; — and then his mental and 
moral march onward and upward, as he co-operates with 
other men, in consciously fulfilling the grander purpose 
of life. 

Fifth, he would come to the borders of old age ; when, 
before infirmity overtakes him, his field of view has so 
widened that he embraces, in the scope of his mental, 
moral, and spiritual vision, the whole world, its history and 
its people ; when he sloughs off the priggishness that 
grows out of easy success in life, but the individual, 
though insignificant in himself, has become of importance 
in his own eyes, while considered as a component element 
of the race ; when he sees how all things — even the ap- 
parently trivial — have their uses ; when, acquiescing in the 
general harmony of the universe, he finally accepts, with 



1 84 & UMINA T70JVS. 

composure, the fact of a gradual dwindling of his powers 
or faculties, and, loosening his grasp of things temporal, 
he complacently sinks back again into the vast obscure of 
eternity ; to make way, in this mundane arena, for the 
crowding, onward procession of humanity, that carries 
upon its banner gleaming above all others in brightness, 
one inscription : — 

The individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Novels. 

There are obviously at least four great facts, moral, 
social, and physical facts — of the human race — the ex- 
perience or history of which is always especially interesting 
to mankind in general. In the ideal world — represented 
by fiction, poetry, painting, music or sculpture — they 
stand out with significant prominence. Birth, love, 
marriage, and death are the staple of nearly all story, or 
imaginative or emotional fiction, in letters or art ; and 
appeal to the widest curiosity and sympathy. 

The romantic tales — whether true or feigned — that 
appear to take the strongest and most lasting hold upon 
the popular mind (aside from some rather accidental ones 
that typify in concrete form some popular sentiment or 
modernize some deep-seated tradition) are those that 
begin with the passion of love, and end with the fact of 
marriage. 

Since biography or history — made up of whole lives of 
men and women singly, or together — composes a large 
part of the common resources of the discursive, omniv- 
orous reader (such as feeds so plenteously upon fictitious 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 1 85 

story) it is rather strange that writers of novels do not 
more often push their adventures farther into the later 
and remoter ways of life of their characters. With some 
readers, a true picture of married life, written from the same 
stand-point as the romantic novel, well might interest 
greatly. Can it be true that the modern novelist is willing 
to teach the narrow lesson that with marriage the romance 
of life ends, and only the hard prosaic reality remains ? 

Wherever such more thorough and complete books 
have been well written, they usually have laid hold upon 
and kept the attention of mankind for very long periods. 
Mayhap with the novel-writer it is easier to cater to the 
taste of the younger readers. And perhaps the passion of 
young love (when it is the substance of a story) appeals 
to a larger light-reading constituency than do any other 
of the common dynamics of human life. Possibly, too, 
the capacity to tell a tale, embracing the whole, or even 
the maturity, of a life, involves greater imaginative and 
reasoning powers, higher culture, broader experience, 
more comprehensiveness — and possibly, besides, a special 
genius for fathoming the mysteries of, and finding the 
secret clue to, the complexities of the later part of a 
human existence — than does the composition of a story, 
which is but an episode in a life, or only a half-developed 
career. The opulent and unabashed genius of Balzac 
demonstrates what excellence may be achieved in this 
direction. 

In a romance or novel — except in archaic reproduc- 
tion — generally that writer finds most success, immediate 
and perhaps permanent, who makes his hero reflect the 
essential undertone of the current day and hour in respect 



1 86 fi VMINA TIOMS. 

to feeling, opinion, thought, and human conduct. The 
very hour always has its typical hero in the common 
mind, either in fact or fancy. This comes perhaps from 
no special or intrinsic merit in the ideal man ; but rather 
because he is the creature of the exigencies of the time, 
or sometimes because he comes to us in due season to 
satisfy an intelligent want. It is not unlike the case of 
the breaking out of a new, but necessary, word for our 
common vocabulary. Besides, from a special point of 
observation, such a hero seems, for the time, to be the best 
that maybe had. And then, as all surrounding things ap- 
pear to lead in one direction, that is perhaps the easiest 
way for the writer to go. Hence many things work for the 
success of such a tale. If the type be worth preserving, it 
will endure, like other natural products; — either in its 
singleness for a long period of time, or as part of the 
rudimentary traits of some new product in the future. 

The Dramatic Faculty. 

The dramatic faculty is possessed more commonly than 
generally is supposed. It is manifested very often by 
children in the facility with which they compose stories 
of fictitious persons and events. In early youth, neces- 
sarily, self-experience and self-consciousness play an 
insignificant part in human nature. Where, however, the 
youthful mind is imaginative, and leans toward the pic- 
turesque — inasmuch as it works almost wholly outside — 
it usually borrows its material chiefly from reading and 
superficial sight-seeing, or what is very commonly heard 
or known. Yet such productions are far more genuine 



EVERY-DAY TALK. 1 87 

and truly dramatic than when, as sometimes happens— 
through injudicious parental treatment of ephemeral pre- 
cocity — the little brain is morbidly sentimental, or gives 
itself up to formulating the results of its own petty 
morbid introspection. 

By cultivation and encouragement, this faculty some- 
times may become a source of great mental and perhaps 
social pleasure ; — even if it never mature to such a degree 
as to add anything to literature. For those whose well- 
conditioned dispositions lead them to love human nature, 
and to be deeply interested in human actions, what can 
furnish a more pleasing, interesting, varied or endless 
occupation (merely by musing if not by writing) than 
the sincere study of other people — the feigned reproduc- 
tion of their dispositions, motives, intelligence, actions, and 
general conduct ; — not from our own but from the special 
point of vision of such people themselves ? That is the 
essence of the genuine dramatic method. 

When a genius of the stamp of Byron — morbid, intro- 
spective, and egotistic — creates a mimic world with 
angels, devils, and men, each, as often has been said, has 
a strong family resemblance, and if not Byron himself, 
is thoroughly Byronic. But when a catholic and univer- 
sal mind, like Shakespeare, peoples the earth or the air, 
the more we study his creatures — their vicissitudes and 
their conduct — the more we are inclined to listen to the 
conjecture that their author had no special individuality. 
Some profound critics seem to think he held the whole 
world in solution in the alembic of his imagination. Being 
a microcosm in himself, he could divine the thoughts and 
probable actions of others from their separate individual 



1 8 8 fi UMINA T70JVS. 

stand-point ; and thus reproduce their conduct objec- 
tively — so that the common eye can see such persons as 
they move and breathe like living beings. 

This is the true mental creativeness of normal genius ; 
not to copy with partial hand the lineaments of our own 
special and perhaps distorted features, but rather to sit 
inside the mind and heart of another, who may be a 
typical specimen of some phase of human nature ; to feel 
and think as that one does in the nakedness of his own 
soul ; and then to represent by an outward form some 
of his actions as he is likely to make them — varied by 
all the mingled motives and external forces that shape 
his special individuality of conduct. Look, for instance, 
at the marvellous effect with which Shakespeare — follow- 
ing the meteor-like trail of " Marlowe's mighty line " — 
wrought out, with a bold hand, his historical plays. 

The frequent exercise of this faculty (without intent of 
authorship) as a mere personal discipline, might supply 
sometimes a good practical antidote — if kindly employed 
in the catholic manner suggested — to that morbid condi- 
tion of mind which is too commonly begotten (among the 
over-scholarly and the excessively reflecting) by a habit 
of continual self-introspection, and a consequent growth 
of exaggerated self-consciousness. 

Waste of Time. 

It is deplorable that, during our brief lives — with so 
much to be learned and done, with such capability of 
strengthening or rendering joyously effective our in- 
tellectual and moral powers by judicious study or timely 



EVERY- DAY TALK. 1 89 

training and exercise — despite immemorial teaching, we 
should waste so large a portion of our petty span of time. 
We store the memory with rubbish, stale the vividness of 
attention with vain repetitions, and allow the vigor of our 
faculties to wane instead of expanding — from sheer lack 
of energetic will, of systematic discipline, and methodical 
endeavor. In our school-days most of us are careless 
spendthrifts in this way. In later years few are able to 
overcome habits so acquired, leading in the same direc- 
tion. 

During how many weary hours of youth also do we tax 
our strength in acquiring that which for nearly all bene- 
ficial purposes is wholly valueless. Usually it is even a 
burden to carry, until through indolence or other neglect, 
it slips from our shoulders. It would be quite enough, 
of idle sacrifice, if our acquisitions of useless knowledge 
were limited to those errors and false notions which 
sometimes furnish the key to correct ideas, by setting us 
to the work of close thinking, or by making us ashamed 
of our ignorance or misinformation — through comparison 
of ideas with those of our more advanced, or more 
fortunately instructed associates. However, there is 
sometimes a consolation in the reflection that much of 
what we find to be worthless this year — and, for that 
reason, now to be discarded — was, last year, even a little 
in advance of us. It has become insignificant only be- 
cause it has been, as it were, merely a ladder reaching to 
something beyond, which we could not formerly see, and 
which might never have seen at all, had we not attained 
our new and higher stand-point. Our ideals grow with 
our acquisitions, 



1 90 J? UMINA TIONS. 

Considering the shortness of life — and how much a 
willing hand may find to do — one wonders at the habitual 
state of mind that so commonly welcomes any diversion 
merely in order " to kill time." Some men always find 
so much more mental employment at hand than can well 
be disposed of, they never know what is meant by having 
time hang heavily upon their hands. Neither have they 
any desire to kill it. It dies long before it becomes a 
burden. Yet doubtless this kind of murder is the chief 
occupation of too many capable of better things. By be- 
ginning early in life they become expert in the slaughter. 

The art of life was well expounded, from this point of 
view, the other day, in a conversation overheard of two 
gilded, or rather lacquered, youths— already more than 
sated with frivolous pleasures. After some despondent 
talk of the nothingness of existence, one of them con- 
cluded the requiem of his philosophy, by saying : — " Well 
what is life, after all, but a constant struggle to kill time ; 
— and to avoid the public alms-house ? " 

Exaggeration. 

A common vice in ordinary conversation, as well as 
in written speech, is the often reprobated habit of making 
recklessly exaggerated statements of facts or circum- 
stances. Its long affiliation with coarse and cheap 
American humor has given it a currency among us beyond 
its deserts — if any merit it really has. There is much to 
be said against it — even as a stale device of provincial 
buffoonery or coarse waggery. There is so little to 
recommend it — except perhaps as a wand in the hand of 



E VERY-DAY TALK. I9I 

a genius like Rabelais — one is inclined to wonder that it 
has not been long ago banished utterly — at the least, 
from all well-bred social intercourse. 

To practise it (without specific design or as a vehicle 
for humor) usually betrays a frivolous disposition, an 
irregular imagination, or a slovenly inattention to im- 
portant details. It indicates an almost reckless disregard 
of moral accuracy, and a carelessness of the effect of 
language upon another — which, to say the least, are 
traits by no means respectful to one's auditors. Again, 
although it may not even suggest the notion of a wilful 
perversion of actual fact or any intent harmfully to 
deceive another ; yet it insensibly begets — when one is 
accustomed to hear this sort of talk — a habit in hearers 
of giving but little attention to such a speaker's state- 
ments. It dissociates all seriousness from what he may 
say ; and finally men regard him as a common laugher, 
who cannot take himself seriously and whose speech does 
not deserve ordinary notice. Moreover it produces a 
bewildering effect upon the general listener, which is 
quite incompatible either with a serious interest in, or a 
care to remember, what is thus said. And in the end it 
is likely to cheat the speaker — however humorous — of 
more than half his due, because of his common discredit 
as a narrator, or reporter. 

Perhaps it is sometimes not inexcusable in an earnest 
advocate or a real humorist, whose reputation for good 
sense is unclouded ; — who seeks to produce an immediate 
effect and is not supposed to be limited by an obligation 
to speak with impartial accuracy. Nevertheless its fre- 
quent use tends, in most cases, to destroy capability for 



1 92 R UMINA TIONS. 

judicial impartiality, where such faculty exists — precisely 
as a contrary habit of conscientious accuracy of statement 
usually runs with fairness of judgment. When Rufus 
Choate — who habitually revelled in hyperbole — was asked 
to accept a judicial office, he declined emphatically, 
saying shrewdly : — " It would destroy my power of ex- 
aggeration. " 

Criticism. 

As this word indicates by its origin, criticism is dis- 
crimination and judgment — not mere censoriousness, or 
even petty fault-finding, as the vulgar impression some- 
times assumes. Sound criticism is analysis, exposition, 
and comparison. The good or bad in art or letters 
appears involuntarily by this operation. All else in it 
— that is good — is mere illustration from a true point 
of view. 

Unfortunately, however, the more profound the study, 
or the more elaborate the analysis and exposition, the 
less likely it is to catch the popular ear. The easy, 
flashy, empirical criticism — that which tickles the sense of 
the superficial, and economizes attention and thought in 
the hearer — the hasty, the inconsiderate, the ill-natured, 
the witty, the arrogant, the flippant, and the pedantic 
comments are much in vogue at all times. 

False criticism has its motives and its formulas, that 
save time and labor for itself. Its apparent spirit is to 
exhibit the erudition, the sagacity, or the superior poten- 
tial capacity of the critic. Two of its favorite methods 
are to show first, what a particular work of art or letters 
is not, and next, to dwarf it by ill-natured comparison 



EVERY-DAY TALK. 1 93 

with some widely different work, or with something not 
attempted by the work in hand. 

The intellectual world in general is, of course, deeply 
interested in cherishing the growth of good literature — 
even more so than in the suppression of that which is 
bad. The latter contains in itself the germs of its own 
destruction. The office of good criticism is not to dis- 
courage intelligent effort, but rather — so far as it honestly 
can— to point out merits, while not misleading by suppres- 
sing faults. When kindly sought, this golden mean is easy 
to find. 

The chief business of the true critic is first of all to 
consider a work of art from the special stand-point of the 
artist himself. This view should temper and qualify at 
least all the critic's judgments. This is his lowest point 
of observation ; but it should fill his mind with a real 
sense of appreciation of what has been attempted, and 
soften his heart with mercy towards every honest, earnest 
effort. In this spirit he should mount the judgment-seat 
and begin his survey of the field into which the new- 
comer has entered. When by comparison he has given 
it the relative character it deserves, he may with sounder 
discretion analyze it and expound, praise, condemn, or 
illustrate what it has done or omitted, well or ill — in short 
what it has accomplished in the direction of its own aim. 

Learned, honest, faithful, impartial criticism, though a 

subordinate, is a noble ally of true art. The artist is 

foolish in his own case, and an enemy to art in general, 

who deprecates it. No man can ordinarily see his own 

work as the world will see it — or even as it really is. 

The idea, or conception of it ? may be his own — possibly 
13 



1 94 R UMINA TIONS. 

true, grand or beautiful, and nearly perfect — yet the 
truthfulness of his mode of treating its expression, and 
the success or failure of his particular mode of develop- 
ment of it to the sense of others, may be something far 
beyond the scope of his own judgment to determine. 
Hence the fair-minded, intelligent, well-equipped, honest 
critic is always the author's or artist's best friend. Never- 
theless, as La Bruyere says : — " Criticism is often not a 
science, but a trade, requiring more health than intelli- 
gence, more industry than capacity, and more practice 
than genius." 

Generation of Ideas. 

Although some men possess so perfect a combination 
of the higher intellectual powers that they breed great or 
brilliant thoughts in solitude and silence, yet it is rare 
to find minds really so hermaphroditic. With many the 
exercise of walking or riding seems to have a marvellous 
effect in stimulating a capacity for such spontaneous con- 
ceptions. Usually, however, the generating of new ideas 
— aside from the provocation of unusual events — comes 
more from the contact of mind with mind, in speech or 
reading. Embryonic germs are always afloat in fertile 
brains, waiting the chances of fructification. Many of 
these however unhappily perish in their barren singleness. 
Like the flowers of the field they need the fecundating 
dust, or pollen, of other minds to impart to them the 
capacity to blossom and grow into fruit. For this reason 
it is probably so common to find men who talk much 
better than they write. 



EVERY-DAY TALK. 195 

By some such process of ideation come most of the 
infinite varieties of vivid thought, imagination, or fancy 
that instruct and delight the world in the wide depart- 
ment of belles lettres. Thus, also, as it were, by the ladder 
of other men's minds, we may sometimes climb to heights 
we had not else conceived to be attainable. By this 
method too we may grope clairvoyantly our way into the 
future ; — formulating the possible from the known, until 
at length we can even imagine something of the Great- 
Hereafter. From this consociation of intellect with 
intellect, often comes that fine enthusiasm, or inward- 
light, which springs up unbidden in some minds, and goes 
by the name of spiritual insight. Sometimes it seems as 
if one only held up a torch, while another found the way ; 
— so little indeed may we claim pure originality for some 
of our most striking conceptions. 

The reverse of such minds Charles Lamb in his often 
quoted Imperfect Sympathies characterized as " Caledo- 
nian " saying : — " The brain of a true Caledonian (if 
I am not mistaken) is constituted on quite a different 
plan. His Minerva is born in panoply. . . . You 
cannot cry i halves' to anything that he finds." 

Knowledge. 

It is a disheartening reflection that we cannot know ab- 
solutely that anything really is — or in other words, that 
our knowledge of things is limited to what merely appears 
to be. Intrinsically to us, Kantean science proposes to 
teach that, so far as we can know, nothing actually exists. 
Things simply seem to be, in proportion as we are 
capable of apprehending an appearance of them through 



1 96 j? UMINA TIONS, 

our limited faculties ; everything we suppose we know 
depending upon ourselves for its existence. If one be 
blind, to him there is no color. If one be deaf, to him 
there is no sound. If one cannot taste, to him there is 
no sweet, bitter nor sour. All is illusion — mere cerebral 
phantasmagoria, or nothing ! The like infirmity awaits 
us in higher matters. None but the pure can know what 
"the pure in heart " may see. If a man, by gross abuse 
of his original simplicity of nature, be sullied, one of his 
surest punishments is that he becomes a confirmed 
doubter of, and never again can know in himself, the 
charitable sweetness of temperament, and the serene joys, 
of the pure. He unavoidably will account them all as 
delusions — phantoms of the brain — and look upon the 
innocent believers in them as dupes. One may thus im- 
brute nearly every one of his finer faculties. 

Important then it is, even in this view alone, that we 
follow the preacher and keep ourselves fresh and clean, 
preserving all our capabilities in their vigor and perfection ; 
besides so guarding and cultivating our delicately appre- 
ciative powers of body, mind, and spirit, that we may 
thereby feel, see, and know, constantly — so far as it is 
given us to know at all — more and more ; and not lose 
our share of the higher enjoyments of life through im- 
prudent abuse of our capacity for seizing them. 

In this vein the bee said to the spider (before Matthew 
Arnold was born) in Swift's Battle of the Books : — 
" The difference is, that instead of dirt and poison, we 
have rather chose to fill our hives with honey and wax ; 
thus furnishing mankind with the two noblest of things, 
which are, sweetness and light." 



EVERY-DAY TALK, 1 97 

Professional Glory. • 

Lawyers and physicians are commonly prone to the 
lauding of their respective professions as the noblest oc- 
cupations of men. They pronounce them well adapted to 
satisfying the most worthy ambition of any one, and well 
deserving all the zeal and love they can give to this object 
of their affection. One, who closes his eyes, when hear- 
ing them talk of these things — especially, when they are 
inspiring their juniors or haranguing the public — might 
fancy that, with all the world before them, at the pleasure 
of their will, they had chosen, highly and nobly, their 
occupations. Indeed one easily could suppose them to 
be pure philanthropists, who had selected their lot chiefly 
in order to do their utmost to serve or benefit the human 
race ; and that a zeal and love for their calling had 
swallowed up every other desire. 

Doubtless with some this ebullition of sentiment is pro- 
foundly sincere. For such men would find their highest 
ambition in being benefactors of the race, in whatsoever 
place in the ranks of active life chance or choice might 
cast their fortune. Many others by the conta'gion of 
sympathy, and from absence of free-will, may be alike 
honest, so far as they know themselves. Yet it is not un- 
frequently observed that when, by chance, one of the 
magnates of these professions has attained a pecuniary 
fortune, at whatever period of life, he is generally 
quite ready to drop out of the field of his labors, and 
quit it, as easily as if he had been all the while simply 
running a race, and had reached the goal he always had 
in view. 



1 98 R UMINA TIONS. 

Hurry and Haste. 

Easily as they are distinguishable, hurry and haste are 
often confounded. Haste implies quickness but not con- 
fusion, or lack of clear purpose, or choice of means. It 
involves directness as well as celerity of action. Haste 
presupposes deliberate plan, clear method and rapid 
execution. It is swift in despatch of business, because its 
outline of action is determined, and the brain leads the 
hand in all it does. It is usually the mark of a strong 
mind, with clear purpose, and vigorous intent to accom- 
plish the end in view. It is meritorious in most human 
affairs. 

Hurry, on the other hand, is a vice to be avoided. It is 
action without plan or clear conception of the object to 
be attained. It is doubtful in the choice of means to be 
employed. Instead of being a method of carrying into 
effect a well-devised scheme by direct effort, its plan is 
either confused or extemporized. It involves irregularity 
and delay in the conduct of business. It is a vice of 
young, inexperienced, weak, or little minds. 

Haste goes straight to the end in view : hurry doubles 
its track and wastes time or opportunity, or both. Haste 
is a trait of a strong-man-armed who is terribly in earnest. 
Hurry, on the contrary, implies want of imagination or 
memory, and acts upon the shiftless impulse of the 
moment — plan and execution going hand in hand and 
stumbling over each other. It is like a swift runner who 
trips up his own heels. In times of sudden emergency 
it is a common infirmity — avoidable only by the cool, the 
wise, or the experienced. As a matter of self-conduct in 



E VER Y-DA Y TA LK. I 99 

most affairs, wherever practicable, a prudent man will set 
his face as a flint against it. 

Borrowing Books. 

It is a more than bad manners to keep a borrowed 
book an unreasonable length of time. It is demoralizing 
to the borrower, unfair to the lender. When a sense of 
shame compels you to return the loan, you feel as if you 
were making a reluctant gift. The apparent loss mortifies 
you, and insensibly you make the owner semi-conscious 
that he is ungraciously depriving you of something you 
are scarcely able to spare. Your long possession has 
seemed to give you a sort of property-right in his goods. 
You induce him to feel as if you had been his gratuitous 
depository for his own benefit ; or perhaps worse, as if 
you had a claim upon his courtesy to allow you to retain 
his property indefinitely — even if you have not earned a 
right to enforce a sort of bailee's lien upon it for storage ! 
You make him ashamed to receive it back again ; while 
you put your own self-respect out of balance, and often 
leave it permanently in a somewhat damaged condition. 
All of this deplorable state of things, as you well know, is 
the result of your own carelessness, and neglect of prompt 
performance of a plain duty — to say nothing of your 
childish ingratitude for a favor you have not deserved. 

All reference to a well-known habit of " conveying " 
books from public places, such as libraries, hotels, and 
clubs, is purposely omitted. In such cases the sense of 
shame having become extinct there is nothing left but to 
call the police. 



200 £ UMINA TIONS. 

Gems of Thought. 

How often a bright thought, a sound judgment, a 
sagacious opinion, a wise saying, a brilliant metaphor, or 
a happy expression passes without apparent appreciation, 
until some accident, or some inferior accessory, brings it 
into popular repute. Connoisseurs, critics, and experts 
are but a few, among the great multitude that make up 
the world of readers and talkers about books. 

With the many, it is not the brilliancy, or purity alone, 
of a jewel that wins approbation. It is more commonly 
the fashion of the day, or the setting of the gem, that 
attracts the attention of the generality of mankind, or 
excites their cupidity, and makes them covet its 
possession. 

So in books, many are the things witty, profound, 
brilliant, or beautiful, that sleep unnoticed by the mass 
until chance, or perhaps some adroit purloiner of other 
men's goods, takes them from their dull surroundings 
and arrays them in attractive accessories. Then they 
become familiar to the ear, and known as household 
words. 

Maxims and Proverbs. 

Maxims and proverbs, like many apparent analogies, 
unless taken in a very general sense, are often useless, or 
misleading, or both. If a statement of a rule of conduct 
be so loose and comprehensive, as to be universal, it is 
almost unavoidably a palpable truism. If, however, it be 
sufficiently definite with specific limitations, to be of 
practical utility, although true in some sense, it is likely, 



EVERY-DAY TALK. 201 

when taken literally, to contain as much falsehood as 
truth. 

Their value consists in formulating principles or ideas 
of general acceptance — not so much to fix an unvarying 
specific rule, as to draw a line, or make a fixed point of 
departure, for distinct truths beyond. For obviously in 
all matters of opinion, as in science, it abbreviates dis- 
cussion, and helps toward reaching truth in the particular, 
to have, as a starting-point, something that is conceded 
by all to be true, in the general. 

Shortness of Life. 

Few people come to the full measure of the fair dura- 
tion of human life. Some do, indeed, survive even four 
score years or more ; yet how many of their early con- 
temporaries such persons outlive. Often they see fall by 
the wayside their companions, whose chances of long 
life were once apparently as good as — nay, often better 
than, their own. The majority of mankind, however, do 
not in fact die in the ordinary course of nature, or from 
unavoidable disease. Far the greater number either 
come to death from accidental causes, or bring death 
upon themselves by some act of imprudence — or perhaps 
unconscious personal recklessness— which might apolo- 
getically be called involuntary suicide. 

Books. 

It is too common a mistake to count acquaintance 
with books as learning or its equivalent. It is an old 
observation that a man's knowledge consists only in that 



202 R UMINA TIONS. 

which he has taken into his mind by assimilation, and not 
merely by crude possession. Memorizing is simply the 
first step. Books are well called the tools of learning. 
To know them is not in itself knowledge, but to know 
how to use them may lead up to it. Miscellaneous books, 
however, are often of little use in this respect. A ma- 
jority of those generally read without method are simply 
useful to amuse the idle, or soothe the weary. Too 
many books now-a-days are chiefly occupied with profit- 
less criticism, or idle history of, or gossip about other 
books, and their writers' vagaries. 

Ways of Thought. 

There are divers ways by which a man may satisfy his 
mind in the pursuit of truth upon any subject. One 
instructive method is, after carefully canvassing different 
errors concerning the matter in hand, to contrast one 
error with another. The true line may be suggested 
sometimes by the point of crossing in the devious ways 
that lead astray. Often again the verity of the true path 
seemingly may be determined by comparing it (when 
believed to be ascertained) with others that have been 
proved to be false. Thus, by the foil of error, truth will 
be made often to shine with a brighter light. 

Recognized Greatness. 

Among the earliest balking impressions forced upon 
the attention of an ambitious youth is the suspicion that 
fame generally too hardly is earned and too slowly 
accorded, 



E VERY-DAY TALK. 203 

As he studies history, visits cities, or walks the great 
art galleries of the world (where are gathered the em- 
blems of the deeds, or the figures, of heroes) one of the 
first lessons taught him is that with rare exceptions — 
such as of a few persons pre-eminent in art or poetry — 
they appear to be men much past middle life. Next, he dis- 
covers that those who are, by universal estimate, accounted 
great, have already died. Finally, he learns that even 
these were not so esteemed, generally, until after death 
had silenced envy, rivalry, and detraction, among their 
contemporaries. 

Ideas. 

Men's ideas appear to be greatly dependent upon the 
quantity or condition of the blood in the brain. When 
that blood is sluggish there is little or no thought — lazy 
dreams swarming in the imagination or flitting through 
the fancy. When there is too much of this blood, the 
ideas are correspondingly gorged, crowded, or confused. 
But when the circulation is lively and regular there is a 
happy flow of clear and, generally, pleasant thoughts. 

The Past. 

Unwise as it may be to look mournfully, or much any 
way, into the past of our lives, at the least, we may note 
our wasted opportunities, in matters in respect to which 
there is still time in the present, or may be in the future, 
to supply deficiencies, or yet to do what we may have 
left regretfully undone. So, too, may we cherish hope, 
that — like sleep— is a " balm of hurt minds/' 



204 i? UMINA TIONS. 

Amusement. 

For a man who is himself without either enthusiasm 
or any vagrant impulses, it seems often laughable to look 
on and see how large a part of the world — when removed 
from the necessary cares of a struggle for existence — is 
actually hard, if not painfully at work merely for self- 
amusement. Yet what worse torment can be suggested 
to the ordinarily intelligent man than enforced idleness ? 
Even the common prison convict proverbially pines and 
grows mad, or dies under it. 

Labor. 

True life must be built up, or grow, and develop by 
discipline, and by work. Where it involves neither, it 
may bring joy or doom, but it hardly deserves the name 
of human-life. It is inconsecutive, casual, and little 
better than an animal existence. Work is the only 
human amends for the loss of Eden. 






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SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 




There is a kind of character in thy life, 
That, to the observer, doth thy history 
Fully unfold. 

Measure for Measure, 

A Painter's Tale. 

ANY years ago I was living entirely alone. 
My pecuniary tide was at a low ebb. I 
was hourly tormenting myself about ways 
and means — how to raise the wind — how to 
pay my landlord. 

I was residing in the city of New York — a poor 
painter in a very poor way. I was out at the elbows, 
very hard pressed with duns of many sorts, and had 
scraped together simply money enough to buy a rectangu- 
lar piece of canvas, two feet by three. I was kept alive 
by the charity of a stout old woman who had long main- 
tained a huckster's stall in Fulton Market. She allowed 
me to have daily a few boiled potatoes and a little bread 
— the remainder of her own frugal meal. I slept upon 
my overcoat and a rough travelling shawl, thrown upon 
the floor in my studio. 

205 



2o6 & UMINA TIONS. 

This studio deserves a slight description. It was in 
the basement of a large building adjoining Trinity Church- 
yard, accessible from both Broadway and Thames street. 
The light was quite feeble. I was obliged, in the darker 
hours of the day, as well as by night, to supplement it by 
tallow candles — which a grocer's boy kindly furnished 
me, upon credit, for my first week or two, with the 
promise of double pay in future. I had worked for 
many days upon my canvas, much embarrassed by the 
struggling light of my new studio — having been accus- 
tomed to better things. 

I had sketched in outline an allegorical subject — 
something about Faith feeding Hope and Despair, while 
the latter two were fighting over their eleemosynary diet. 
It had become a mass of figures busily engaged in some 
absorbing occupation ; but somehow I could not make 
the composition tell its story — if any it had to tell. It 
had, however, at least one peculiarity common to many 
allegorical works of attempted high art. It suggested 
to the inquisitive observer the familiar dialogue between 
the managerial showman and the rustic visitor : — " Which 
is the monkey, and which is the polar bear ? " — " Just 
vich you please, my dear ; you pays your money, and you 
has your choice. ,, However, I was not a mere beginner. 
I had been painting with great enthusiasm, labor, and 
patience, for several years — having begun when a mere 
stripling — and at different times had been rewarded 
with some private, though intermittent success. Yet 
hitherto I had not challenged really either public atten- 
tion, or the malignity of critical connoisseurs, or even 
the amiable jealousy of fellow-artists. 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 207 

But I was enthusiastic and ambitious to the verge of 
romance. This painting was designed to be my chef 
d'ceuvre ; and I wrestled over its difficulties— by night as 
by day — with a Sisyphean incessancy. The achievements 
of the demi-gods of pictorial art warmed my imagination 
and sustained my hand. I could throw a good deal of 
verisimilitude into the expression of the face of my figure 
of Despair — drawing inspiration doubtless from the feel- 
ings that often overcame me while laboring with it. I 
had detected a gleam of light in the eyes of the grocer's 
boy when he brought me my candles that I endeavored 
to transfer to the looks of my figure of Hope. But although 
both of these subjects were unsatisfactory, neither of 
them gave me one half the trouble I had with Faith. 

She continued vague and unsubstantial. Despite my 
zeal to give her body and form, she seemed to come out 
of some mythical world, where a body may be too unreal 
to cast a shadow, and perhaps even a voice cannot pro- 
voke an echo. 

My market-woman, despite all the ruggedness becom- 
ing to her occupation, had a fine motherly face, and 
clearly looked upon me as a forlorn child, who might 
grow some day to be a man of note. An almost saintly 
smile used to come over her countenance when I told her 
I soon would be able to repay her kindness. She would 
tell me not to bother over that matter but to work away 
with all my strength, and some day she would ask the 
privilege of coming to look at my pictures. Yet, do 
what I could, that ineffable smile was too much for my 
brush. I could not afford to hire models. To guide me, 
I was forced to rely upon others' sketches, memory of 



208 ft UMINA TIONS. 

actual life, and what is sometimes called in art " inspira- 
tion" — oftentimes, by the way, as I then began to 
think, a poor affair for either artist or poet without 
" whiskey " to set it going. I tried in vain to give to my 
phantom of Faith the sweet, self-sustaining look of 
my dear old preserver. It would not stick upon the 
canvas. 

One evening, regardless of the flight of time, I had sat 
late at my work. Perhaps it was near midnight. The 
bells of old Trinity were ringing out more hours than I 
had patience to count. I was fretted and distressed with 
the slow progress of my picture. If it was to be of any 
benefit to me, I must have it ready to send, and take its 
chances for the exhibition of the National Academy of 
Design, in a fortnight. Yet it lacked much to convey my 
idea or to be what I well knew it ought to be, or even 
what I felt I had, at times within me, the power to make 
it. Faith had deserted me ; Hope was slipping from my 
grasp, and Despair was already tempting me to abase my 
art to a mere mechanical trade. 

While in this quandary — nervous and exceedingly 
excitable, for starvation was staring me in the face, in- 
deed almost had me in its merciless gripe — I was sudden- 
ly startled and aroused by a gentle but firm tap, loud and 
single, at my only door. Who could this be ? Who, at 
this time ? I opened the door cautiously, rather appre- 
hensive of something hostile. In front of it stood a well- 
dressed gentleman, some sixty years of age, who asked 
me, with a very polite accent, if I were an artist who 
painted portraits ? Upon my rather eager reply in the 
affirmative, without being invited he walked unhesitatingly 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 20Q 

into my humble studio, and, taking the only vacant chair, 
asked me to paint him as he sat. 

I made no answer. A horrid sense of formication ran 
all over me. I began to shiver like one partly encased in 
snow. Somehow I seemed to believe my proffered sitter 
was dead, and that he had just come out of the neighbor- 
ing churchyard ! It appeared to me perfectly natural he 
should have done so. My boyish terror of the dead and 
my dread of being a visitor of their resting-place at mid- 
night, had never been outgrown. Unlike Goethe — who is 
said systematically to have laughed and braved it out of 
himself in early life — I had nourished rather my childish 
apprehension, in such matters, until I had become matured 
as a man. It still clung to me with a tenacity not unlike 
the octopan clasp of a New-England-bred conscience. I 
could not pass even at this age through a graveyard with- 
out my heart thumping, my knees inclined to knock and 
my teeth to chatter. 

Here, now, I had my pet horror in the concrete — as one 
might say, its essence double distilled. I fidgeted about 
the room a little — moved a bench — turned " Faith, Hope, 
and Despair " to the wall and resumed my seat, facing 
my lively cadaver, but saying not a word. Indeed I could 
not — I believed — utter a syllable. What should I do ? 
The wicks were burning long in my candles. From the 
movement of the air in the room, they sputtered desper- 
ately, making the light flicker in a most exasperating, and, 
as I fancied, spectre-like way. I felt as if my head were 
made of wood. My mouth was dry as a potsherd, and I 
was completely tongue-tied. The suspense was becoming 
awful. 



210 £ UMINA TIONS. 

After this dismal state of things had continued for 
some moments — which to me seemed hours — my myste- 
rious stranger opened the way himself. He briefly told his 
story. He was indeed dead — and had been buried — as I 
had more than suspected. He could not have shaken 
easily my conviction on that subject ; little as this fact 
commended him to my good graces. 

He had been a physician of great wealth, a member of 
a family of prominent social condition in the city, and 
had died recently quite suddenly. A great affliction to 
his widow and children was added to their natural 
bereavement by the circumstance that they had not even 
a photographic likeness of him. He desired me to paint 
his picture as he sat, and carry it to his family, who would 
be glad to recompense me handsomely for it. His name 
was well known to me, although I had never seen him 
before. I could not — and perceived no reason to — doubt 
the truth of his simple story. 

Immediately I set myself at work. He looked, talked, 
and moved as if in full life ; and yet all the while I was 
conscious he was quite dead, and, although a visitant to 
it, did not now belong to this breathing world. However, 
it did not, even yet, appear to me in the least odd, that he 
and I should be there together or thus engaged. I soon 
forgot my embarrassment over " Faith, Hope, and De- 
spair," and in my zeal over my newly-found task even lost 
all care for the proverbially inscrutable discretion of the 
notorious " hanging committee " of the Academy. An 
unusual power and felicity seemed to nerve my hand, 
quicken my eye, and guide my brush. Although my can- 
vas itself was the palimpsest of more than one rejected 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 211 

picture, the memory of such failures did not discourage 
me. I painted rapidly — with a will and enthusiasm born 
of the weird mystery of the hour. Mine was not a case 
of "youth at the prow and pleasure at the helm," but 
rather of starvation at home and plenty ahead. In two 
hours the work was done, just as my last candle was gut- 
tering into winding-sheets and sending up an unearthly 
glare of waning, palpitating light, while its last compan- 
ion had already subsided into a greasy, sulphuretted car- 
bon-like vapor, emitting an odor at least suggestive of the 
archaic atmosphere of lost souls. 

As I put down my palette and brush my sitter arose, 
looked at the painting, and expressed himself as highly 
gratified. Saying I should see him again {horresco 
refer ens) with a gracious bow he departed. I laid down 
upon my hard bed — little less downy in fact than Othello's 
metaphorical " flinty and steel couch of war " — quite 
exhausted, and soon was soundly asleep. I was lost even 
to the last ray of sub-consciousness, and, as I now under- 
stand it, without even the semblance of a dream. 

When I awoke it was quite late in the morning. The 
sun was bright and fighting its intrepid way through the 
dingy panes of my window which, though small, faced to 
the southeast. I arose quickly, a good deal dazed. I fan- 
cied I had been disturbed by a species of nightmare, born 
of fasting and exhaustion, as I recalled the startling inci- 
dents of my improbable adventure. I did not at first 
doubt it was a dream, pure and simple. I rubbed my 
smarting eyes again and again, while gazing, with a singu- 
lar feeling of the unreality of everything around me, at 
the still fresh painting upon my easel. There it was surely ; 



2 1 2 R UMINA T/OATS. 

the size of life — a head and shoulders ; good in color, 
natural in position and expression. In spite of an 
enforced modest appreciation of my own artistic powers, 
I felt compelled to acknowledge it an excellent piece of 
workmanship. I tried to criticise it severely. It was 
neither cold, hard nor raw in color, stiff in outline, nor 
ungraceful in posture. On the contrary, my first impres- 
sions were reassured. It was graceful, gentle, glowing 
with kindness, and seemed almost able to breathe and 
speak ; nay, seemingly inclined to do so, but resting 
under a sweet and dignified self-restraint. 

I dressed rapidly — the exigencies of my toilet being few 
and simple — and hurried impatiently, with my prize, into 
the narrow street beside my room, where I hoped to get a 
better light. Here, although my opportunity for seeing 
the picture favorably was still very imperfect, again I was 
charmed with the results of my night's work. There was 
no dream about all this. It was reality indeed, of a very 
satisfactory sort. I felt quite hungry, but restrained my 
appetite, with a single dry crust of bread, and went forth- 
with to seek a frame-maker, who had befriended me more 
than once in my sorest needs. 

He kindly mounted the picture, of which he readily 
recognized the likeness. Finding me with apparently 
such good opportunities he freely gave me credit for a 
plain, rich frame, sufficiently large, and well modelled 
and moulded, to give full effect to the painting. I wrapped 
up my still moist treasure very carefully, and about eleven 
o'clock in the day I went up-town to ascertain the 
residence of the family of the defunct. 

I had been so well directed by my ghostly visitor I 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 213 

found the house without difficulty. I was ushered by a 
liveried servant into a rather large and plain, but well 
furnished reception-room, where, after a brief interval, 
the widow, who was a benevolent-looking lady of some 
forty summers, dressed in deep mourning, came to meet 
me. I asked her, in a somewhat rapid and excited man- 
ner, if she were a judge of human nature and could keep 
a secret, and were not afraid to hear the story of a stran- 
ger, which I alleged, in rather a mysterious way, affected 
her interests, but was marvellous, beyond ordinary belief. 
If she were afraid of me she might have others present ; 
yet I preferred to tell what I had to say to herself quite 
alone. 

At first she put on rather a curious expression, some- 
what between a smile of incredulity and a look of rigid 
firmness. I perceived at once she thought I was mad. 
Nor was I surprised at her inference. She was about to 
place her hand upon a bell when I begged her not to 
misunderstand me, for I was wholly in my senses, and she 
need have no apprehension of me. Moreover, to reassure 
her, I offered to begin my story at the end. 

Upon this she hesitated and looked scrutinizingly at my 
countenance while I unwrapped my picture, and, the light 
being good, she had a fair chance to see it to advantage. 
She uttered a faint shriek and settled down upon a chair, 
with her eyes fixed upon the painting, as if she had no 
will or power to remove them. Thus we sat for what 
seemed nearly half an hour ; — I holding the portrait and 
she gazing at the face of her lost husband. 

It afterwards came to my knowledge that she had made 
every effort in vain to get a likeness of him, who had been 



214 R UMINA TIONS. 

in life so dear to herself and her children ; — without even 
the least hope of success. Two or three eminent artists 
of the city had essayed to do the work from description, 
and others from personal acquaintance with the deceased. 
The results were all failures of the worst sort— exagger- 
ating peculiarities of features and expression, making 
fearful caricatures of a singularly difficult subject — and 
had been rejected with ill-disguised horror. 

After a while the lady recovered her composure, and 
wondered how I had done this extraordinary thing. The 
likeness was indeed marvellous ; while the favorite pos- 
ture and most loved expression of face had been accu- 
rately preserved. Of course she supposed it had been 
wrought out from memory, or at least from hearsay. I 
assured her I had known nothing of her husband beyond 
a remembrance of an honored name — and even that had 
passed out of my mind until the night before. When her 
astonishment had had full vent, and she had become com- 
pletely puzzled, and had abandoned all hope of conjecture, 
I begged her to hear quietly my whole story, and then I 
would leave the picture with her. She might make what 
inquiries about myself she thought proper, and, when she 
was entirely satisfied, the painting was her own, and my 
compensation was wholly subject to her pleasure. 

I told my story from beginning to end without a pause 
or interruption. She listened with all the eagerness of a 
Desdemona — although not prompted by any interest in 
myself, beyond the tale as it affected her own family 
affairs. Again and again big tears rolled down her 
cheeks despite all effort at self-restraint, and I could not 
fail to see here was a truly bereaved wife, whose tender 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 21 5 

heart still clung to its lost darling. By some instinct — I 
cannot well define and would be ashamed to characterize — 
I felt assured my fortune was made — that I had gained a 
friend by whose aid I should climb up and out of the pit 
of poverty, and be set upon the high road to prosperity. 
I was yet quite a young man, and this kind-hearted woman 
already seemed to feel a degree of sympathy for me, such 
as is seldom found except between a mother and a son. 

After a pause of some minutes — during which she 
seemed irresolute, as if doubtful in what way to make me 
understand her feelings — in order to give her ample time 
for reflection before committing herself, I arose abruptly, 
saying that, as I was an entire stranger to her and my 
story was on its face incredible, I would beg leave to go, 
and would ask permission to call upon her again after she 
had taken time to reassure herself and make such inquiry 
concerning me as she thought fit. One thing alone I 
requested — that the supernatural part of my narrative 
should remain forever a secret between ourselves. 

Somehow she had gotten an idea that I was destitute 
and nearly starving. With a degree of delicacy that was 
hardly necessary in dealing with a famished man, she ac- 
cepted my proposal to quit her, adding with a gracious 
and maternal smile, that as I was leaving a valuable work 
with a stranger, at least I need not hesitate to receive 
from her a trifle, on account of it, until she could see me 
again. 

Placing a twenty-dollar gold piece in my hand, she 
asked my address, and I left her. Oh, that coin ! With 
what a miser's grip I clutched it. I blushed like a boy, 
with alternate shame and gratification, as I held it up to 



2 1 6 R UMINA TIONS. 

my own wondering eyes. I was half inclined to throw it 
away at one moment — and the next I pressed it to my 
lips, as if I had been a Midas. A hungry Midas I was 
indeed ; but almost a fool in my excitement. 

As common -sense, however, soon crept up from my 
empty stomach and demolished the sentimental nonsense 
swarming in my brain, I made my way directly to a 
restaurant, in what is now lower Broadway, kept, by an 
Italian named Bardotti. Here I had a breakfast just after 
mid-day that might have satisfied a shipwrecked gourmet 
who had not snuffed the savor of a hissing gridiron for a 
month. 

My next visit was to a tailor's shop, where ready-made 
clothes were furnished. There I purchased a coat that 
made me look perhaps less like the typical artist of that 
day, but certainly rather more conventional. After this 
decoration I strolled about the crowded streets for some 
hours — enjoying the sunshine and the sight of the pretty 
female shoppers and promenaders, until I began once 
more to realize that life was before me, and : — 

Hope told a flattering tale, 
That Joy would soon return. 

A night's sound sleep in a clean bed at a good hotel, 
and an ample breakfast the next day, filled the blood- 
vessels of my brain, and I felt once more that I could 
paint. My ambition and consciousness of power rose 
rapidly. In the latter part of the day I returned to my 
dingy studio, where I found a note from my last bene- 
factress desiring to see me. I called without delay. I 
was received again graciously, and paid a handsome price 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER, 2\J 

for my picture. The amount is an artist's secret. Torture 
could not wring it from me. 

Suffice it to say it was ample to set me agoing in a good 
studio, with proper paraphernalia. My old friends, the 
market-woman and the grocer's boy, shared my good luck. 
I was promised favorable notice by my new-found friend, 
and in a very short time I had several portraits under 
way. Soon a flattering description of one of my pictures 
appeared in a leading newspaper, and business began 
rapidly and copiously to flow in upon me. It got whispered 
abroad that I had — or pretended to have — some preter- 
natural gift or assistance, and could — if not raise, at least 
— paint the dead from an imperfect sketch or verbal 
description — or even less ! 

This reputation resulted in many orders, some quite 
absurd in their demands or expectations, and not a few 
very lucrative in their consequences. By some chance or 
inspiration — diabolical or otherwise — I did achieve often 
what was really marvellous and passed for supernatural 
success. Whether my courage imparted skill, or collusion 
with the rambling tenant of a charnel-house guided my 
hand, or the easy faith of my patrons supplied my defi- 
ciencies, I am disinclined further now to suggest. Enough 
to say, the public was satisfied, and I was amply paid. 

This course of events continued for a long time. Years 
of prosperity passed on. I became famous. I grew rich, 
and consequently fashionable ;— without a resort to the 
" salting " of a gold mine, or even the stale sybaritic trick 
of going into bankruptcy and living upon a wife's collu- 
sive income. I gave up all my noble aspirations for high 
art. I devoted myself to pure money-making with inor- 



2 1 8 J? UMINA TIONS. 

dinate greed. I turned my back, with a miser's disdain, 
upon the Academy of Design, and let the friendly dust 
gather upon my allegory of " Faith, Hope, and Despair." 
The leading painters of the city sneered loftily at my 
good fortune. But every open sneer brought me one or 
more additional orders for portraits ; and I demurely, with 
inward exultation, pocketed the affront. 

Yet there was a heavy drawback to all my apparent 
glory and princely fortune. I was single, solitary, and 
heart-hungry almost to desperation. I had little fondness 
for male friendships, but woman was my idol. I fell in 
love repeatedly, and as often fled conscience-stricken 
from the several objects of my attachment. 

I felt I was a doomed man and unfit for the intimate 
association of marriage with a confiding and sensitive 
mate. I lived in a cloud and walked in a vain shadow. 
The cause of all this was the most wonderful part of my 
career. Strange to tell, I never was really quite alone ! 
My dead sitter was always my companion — more constant 
than my shadow. By day or by night, in daylight or in 
darkness, whenever I opened my eyes, he stood or sat be- 
side me. All speech had left him ; in other respects he 
never changed. He seemed to have some diabolical hold 
upon me as the founder of my fortune, and to claim me 
as his own. He had made me all I was. My society was 
apparently the penalty I was compelled to pay him for 
my unconscious league with the Powers of Darkness. 

There was no ransom permissible, and release was 
hopeless while my life lasted. My blood curdles now as 
I think of it. Needless to say, I tried many a ruse to 
escape him, but with no success. He would not go, and 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 219 

I could not elude him. He wearied me beyond my power 
of expression. He was invisible to others, but to me he 
seemed always even " sensible to feeling as to sight." 

It would lead me far beyond the scope of this sketch 
were I to attempt even an outline of the vicissitudes of 
my strange life as I climbed the ladder of notoriety and 
wealth. At some future day I may reveal the incidents 
of this by-play with my ghostly companion before I was 
finally rid of him. 

One summer night I was sitting alone — except for the 
presence of my tormentor— at a very late hour, reading 
some book of Hume, the well-known Spiritualist. I 
began to fancy, from some of his more obscure observa- 
tions, the writer must have had an experience not unlike 
my own. 

I grew very intent in my study of the phenomenon 
then oppressing me, and had not observed that a gaslight 
was dangerously near the curtains of my window. A 
sudden gust of wind brought them in contact with the 
blaze. In an instant I was in the midst of fire. 

I rushed furiously at the hanging drapery, but too late. 
The flames were already out of my reach. I inhaled the 
fire and smoke. Inwardly, as well as externally, I was 
being burned alive. I shouted " Fire ! " and strove to 
get out of the room ; but blinded as well as choked, I 
could not find the door. Presently I heard an unearthly 
clatter in the street below, and almost in a second a mon- 
strous jet of water drenched me to the skin. My next recall 
of consciousness was the sense of my being put upon a 
mattress in front of my old studio in Chapel Street, New 



2 20 R UMINA TIONS. 

Haven, and told to lie still until I could be placed in a 
carriage and taken to a hospital. 

By degrees I realized a painful fact, that everyone 
around me had known for some hours. I had been sit- 
ting beside my window and had fallen asleep there. The 
curtains had taken fire, and my rude awakening from a long 
trance was due to the fireman's hosepipe, that so hastily 
brought all the airy belongings of my castle of happiness 
and misery to a watery grave. And so, by the ordeal of 
fire and water, I escaped the clutches of the evil one. My 
fabled life of avarice ended in a pyre of smoke and 
ashes. Yet I never forgot its moral, so well expressed 
by Allston : — " The love of gain never made a painter, 
but it has marred many." 

Metropolitan Preachers. 

In our large cities those who attend places of public wor- 
ship from curiosity, chiefly in pursuit of pulpit eloquence, 
are inclined to become fastidious, if not hypercritical. 
Naturally hard to please, they seek the kind of speaking 
that best suits their particular temperament or taste, 
rather than their dogmatic belief. To such observers 
there are apparently certain broad distinctions in the 
manner, as well as in the essential traits of city clergymen, 
by which, in view of a nice sense of fitness to such special 
individual needs, some of them may be roughly classified. 
Without attempting to embrace all who are conspicuous 
either by their adaption to the demands of their particu- 
lar congregations, or by their general efficiency in satis- 
fying the function of their high office, it may not be 
unprofitable — from the point of view suggested — to out- 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 221 

line two or three of the leading types that arrest popular 
attention — indicating merely the genus — leaving the 
reader to collate the species that may be classified under 
each head. 

First in rank — of those now referred to — as nearest in 
spirit at least to the example of the Divine Master, is the 
Enthusiast. He may or not have talent, learning, elo- 
quence, rhetoric, or a superior manner ; but at least he 
has sincerity, earnestness, singleness of purpose, forgetful- 
ness of self, love of his fellow-men, devoutness, and, above 
all, entire, unwavering, unshakable faith in the miraculous 
birth, vicarious mission, works, and resurrection of the 
Saviour, as well as in an almost literal interpretation of all 
the startling promises and menaces of divine Revelation. 
Beyond this he is under a vivid, never-faltering convic- 
tion that he has been called himself specially to be wholly 
a man of God, and as such devoutly to give his time, with- 
out stint, together with all his strength and capacity for 
labor, to expounding and illustrating, both by precept and 
by the example of his daily life, the divine theory of 
eternal salvation to men ; and to persuading them to live 
this life only in such manner as shall more assuredly 
win for them the glorious and immeasurable reward that 
awaits the saints in the endless life to come. 

Next in the order of merit might be put what may be 
called the Formalist. This term would represent a very 
large class. Such an one never offends propriety, or 
trenches upon received opinion, inside or outside of estab- 
lished theological dogmas. The most devout never flutter 
at his daring, nor would the lukewarm or the careless ever 
be stirred by any moral magnetism, or any impulsive 



222 R UMINA TIONS. 

sympathy on his part. Coldly correct and classically dull, 
he furnishes such an element in the composition of divine 
worship as the wooden idol does to the undoubting 
pagan — a spiritual director who receives all his inspira- 
tion from those he is supposed to inspire, and a reflector 
that shines only by a borrowed light. He has no fire 
within. It is not the case of a flame that has merely sub- 
sided or gone out. None has ever burned or really 
glowed. 

He has come into the profession as a man grows up to 
be a clerk in a mercantile business. He began life with 
a plan made by his family sponsors for him, and his easy- 
going, tractable nature has kept him within its lines as 
contentedly as is the ox in his transit from the pasture to 
the plow or back again. He reads, prays, and preaches 
with precision and good taste ; he never offends a preju- 
dice, touches a nerve, or gives a pain. He is always in 
the line and never straggles. Indeed, all his duties are 
performed with scrupulous exactness. Possessed of the 
genius of commonplace and the soul of propriety, he is 
respectable and respected. Indeed, he may be relied 
upon always, and upon all occasions, to do the right thing 
at the right time and in the right manner. 

The rich cultivate and the poor fear and unwittingly 
worship him. He is one of those who " live of the sacri- 
fice," and are "partakers of the altar." He makes no 
enemies. He is honored and made the recipient of all 
worldly comforts by his followers in the most gracious 
way, because they inwardly congratulate themselves (for 
the most part unconsciously) that they are doing good 
deeds, and paying tribute to God and religion by bestowing 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 223 

benefactions upon a genuine vicegerent of the Almighty. 
This comes to be so much a matter of course, and the 
good understanding between pastor and parishioner is so 
perfect, that in things spiritual and things moral — so far 
as outward manifestations may go — he is practically their 
conscience-keeper and their priestly master. 

Beloved however as he is in a formal way by his own 
people, he has but little attraction for others outside his 
fold. He is part of a socio-spiritual organization, and he 
is interesting — to those who contemplate him inquisitively 
from without — only as the visible organ of a useful com- 
bination, or social machine. He never provokes the 
understanding, stirs the blood, startles the conscience, 
fires the imagination, wakes the passions, rouses the fears, 
or exalts the hopes of a stranger. His mission does not 
invade alien territory. His limitations confine him to his 
own country, and his own people. With them he lives 
and dies. When he is gathered to his fathers with due 
pomp and honor, another, as nearly like him as may be 
found, takes up and fills the same official round of duties 
and labors. 

After the Formalist next in importance among the 
masters of the dynamics of visible piety — or outward 
religious observance — comes one who, with due reverence, 
(for want of a better word of characterization) may be 
styled the Actor. He is both mimetic and dramatic. He 
has a part to fill, and he know r s his cue " without a 
prompter " — for he is a born player. He may be earnest 
or not, commonplace or not, but at all times and in all 
places he has a role to play, and he plays it secundum 
artem. If he plays ill he descends in the social scale 



224 X UMINA TIONS. 

until he reaches his level, and his audience comes up 
from the hedges and ditches, delighted to see him in his 
bravery. But if he rise to the grand manner that his 
theme can and ought to inspire, if he have eloquence and 
sense, voice and rhetoric, besides personal magnetism, 
and that vast appreciation of self which makes the stamen 
of the hero, and this shall be coupled with the practical 
sagacity that keeps turned away, from public sight, the 
side that shows how much of it may be unfounded self- 
conceit ; if he shall have all these, and, in the prime of his 
manhood or even the efflorescence of a glorious youth, 
shall have captured that protean witch, success, then you 
have a man who thrills the world— a man whom men are 
proud to follow — a man who is deemed fit even to glorify 
God. 

True, there will be some Diogenes-like critics who, in 
their ragged pride, disdain to follow the crowd, and whose 
eyes penetrate beneath royal purple and see nothing but 
meagre bones. Still they are few and far between, and 
their shrill voice of disapprobation is lost in the swarming 
murmur of half-suppressed applause; — as the hum of 
myriad insects sometimes drowns the harsher cricket's 
cry in our summer meadows. He is the hero of popular 
applause, and he lives by inhaling the incense he makes 
to arise from the sacred altar, with the fire of his own 
eloquence and theatrical action. 

After these great figures comes a herd of many stripes ; — 
of lesser importance, though harder to classify. There is 
the Common-routine preacher, who year by year follows 
the same method or formulas ; preaches only what has 
the stamp of authority upon its very letter ; who con- 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 225 

ducts all his round of business with exact formality, and 
with endless repetition unvarying as the sun, and moves 
as if an automaton. He does not suggest the idea that 
he has any special personality or any hearty sympathies 
in common with his race. He is not unlike the Formalist 
in many things, but moves on a lower plain, and within a 
narrower circle. 

Then there is the Rough-and-ready parson, who is 
easily an iconoclast without knowing it. Possessed of 
vulgar manifest self-conceit, and intrinsically ignorant of 
what most of his profession regard as essential to his 
sacred office, he is not unlike the fabled " bull in a crock- 
ery shop," and smashes things generally, with no capacity 
to mend them. Indeed, he has but little appreciation of 
the mischief he does in up-setting beliefs, destroying con- 
victions and vulgarizing things that centuries of hallowed 
association have made dear to the human heart and con- 
secrated to the noblest feelings of our nature. He is a 
" cheap fellow " ! But he draws a gaping crowd, who 
believe him sincere — as perhaps he is — and foolishly es- 
teem him to be a man of genius — a man of the people, 
and one who will soar sometimes beyond the common 
restraints of propriety, only to snatch a grace from some 
higher and holier law of his own gifted being ! 

Besides there is the Charlatan, pure and simple, who 
believes nothing, and who loves none but himself, and 

who : — 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep. 

After him there come varying kinds, not worth while 
here to signalize by special mention, in this limited cate- 



226 R UMINA TIONS. 

gory ; — to say nothing of the great class of pure, simple, 
holy men, who by their learning, piety, wisdom, and spot- 
less lives ennoble human nature and glorify their calling. 

A Melancholy Man's Devices. 

There is a kind of heart-ache that occasionally seems 
to come over some men, without any tangible cause. It 
is rather a negative condition, except for a yearning or 
heart-hunger that is not uncommonly its attendant. Be it 
spleen, or vapors, or hypochondria, or simple sadness, it 
is all-powerful in mental — and perhaps moral — repression. 
It leads one to doubt the value of all human endeavor, 
and to ask, of even virtue itself, cut bono ? — with no satis- 
factory, or at least no comforting, answer. This low state 
of feeling — stagnation of blood and apathy of brain — 
sometimes tends to desperate acts, such as reckless gam- 
ing, intoxication, debauchery, or even suicide. It can 
overcome the strongest man, if he be emotional, imagina- 
tive, and moody by nature as well as solitary or isolated 
by habit, and prone to : — 

Chewing the cud of griefe and paine. 

It is truly a morbid state, that should be dealt with 
rather as a disease than as a wilful offence against the 
laws of cheerful social propriety. How may it be warded 
off, or conquered when it has taken hold of one ? 

Many find consolation in their religion ; and, by prayer 
or confession or both, are enabled to lean upon the 
Strong Arm, and to cast their burden upon that support. 
Tp some, however^ this mode pf relief appears to be 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER, 227 

denied. Others seek by love, affection, or benevolence 
to warm trre chilled current of their souls. Although 
ordinarily irrational, and powerless for self-surrender to 
a conviction of the judgment, it may yield sometimes to 
force of will — when this can be invoked — except so far 
as it may be purely physical. In that case the black 
choler first must be subdued, by drugs or change of air, 
or more. 

My friend Tristis is, and has been from birth, a melan- 
cholist. Possibly he suffers, in his late generation, for an 
abuse of nature by some remote ancestor. He is a 
scholarly man, of independent fortune, fastidious in his 
tastes, and a sincere lover of mankind. He tries to bear 
his vicarious punishment — if such it be — manfully, and 
to mitigate its severity with a practical philosophy. Re- 
cently he told me that, after testing many expedients, he 
had formulated a few plain rules for his self-conduct ; to 
which he could turn and yield, as to a command, when 
the demon of melancholy took possession of him. " For," 
said he, " it is a fact, that I sometimes suffer a sort of 
paralysis of will, and without such artificial aids I am 
almost powerless to take the first step toward my dis- 
enthralment. By these means, however, it is frequently 
practicable for me to dispel these evil humors — as the 
physicians of the last century used to call them." 

A few of these formulas have been here copied from 
his note-book, as possibly useful to his fellow-sufferers, if 
any there be, of like affliction : 

I. — Ascertain, by careful survey and rigid self-examina- 
tion, the actual extent of your discomfort, also how far 
your apparent troubles are real and how far imaginary. 



228 R UMINA TIONS. 

As a criterion of this write them down, one by one, 
honestly, and without color or exaggeration. You may 
thus the better estimate their importance or insignificance ; 

II. — Determine, with judicial fairness, and unsparing 
impartiality, how far the evils you suffer may be a just 
punishment (which you ought to bear without complaint) 
for your personal violation or neglect of some natural 
law, whether physical, intellectual, moral, or social ; 

III. — Consider how many of your acquaintances, whose 
circumstances and condition you know — who may be 
quite as worthy of the smiles of good-fortune as yourself 
— are suffering from ills of greater magnitude than your 
own ; or how far you have reason to rejoice that, in any 
respect, your lot is easier and happier than theirs. If you 
are inclined to envy any one for his placidity of temper, 
remember that many who seem to be thoroughly self- 
contained, are like streams in no danger of overflowing 
their banks, simply because — their sources being feeble 
and their waters shallow — they have so little to hold. 
The sympathies of such people also usually are limited to 
themselves ; 

IV. — As a means of finding diversion, or restoring a 
normal state of mind, and bringing cheerfulness out of 
gloom, try some of the suggestions now to be named ; — 

i. — Write out, with detail, your most troublesome 
thoughts or reflections, in a terse style — in order to see 
how far they will bear such a statement. Having revised 
them carefully and honestly, read them critically again 
and again, pruning severely — and then burn them. 

2. — Select some familiar topic of thought or opinion, 
respecting which you differ essentially from the commun- 
ity in which you are living ; write down your peculiar 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 229 

views, without mincing phrases, but severely testing their 
conformity to written reason ; revise, read — and burn 
cnem as the last. 

3. — Visit places of public amusement, galleries of 
pictures, libraries, or museums of curiosities ; try to 
find some desultory distraction, by casually seeing 
busy men, and observing current things, or by reading, 
superficially and miscellaneously, the lighter literature of 
the day. 

4. — Take up some interesting old or odd book that 
may arouse and keep your attention amused ; continue to 
read it so long only as it is absorbing or very agreeable. 

5. — Seek the society of those whose tastes are thoroughly 
congenial. By conversation, or by pleasure excursion, or 
some other general amusement, get you outside of your- 
self, and aloof from your broodings, as widely and quickly 
as you may. 

6. — Go into the open air — driving, riding, sailing, walk- 
ing, or the like ; but never alone. 

7. — Begin some severe work, either of business or ama- 
teurship ; endeavor to give it your whole mind. 

8. — So soon as you find yourself strongly interested, in 
any occupation that involves no egoity, give your full 
strength to it. Nay, do not hesitate to commit yourself 
to the execution of what you have undertaken, so far, 
that your self-respect, or love of the good opinion of 
your fellow-men, will make you ashamed to leave it 
unfinished. 

9. — Alternate upon these rules, when practicable — as 
either one becomes irksome — until your fevered self- 
consciousness has acquired a normal pulse ; then resume? 
vour real life-work. 



230 J? VMM A T10NS. 

" By these simple devices," said my friend Tristis, " I 
can sometimes attest the merit of the well-known remedy 
prescribed, in somewhat similar cases, by Lady Macbeth 's 
physician." 

The Thirteenth Man in the Omnibus. 

The common New York City omnibus was constructed 
so as to seat and carry twelve persons inside — certainly 
not more. When only twelve, of normal size, sit squarely 
on the seats, each one may ride with some degree of com- 
fort. With these conditions, he may escape generally 
having his toes crushed, his shins kicked, his shoes soiled, 
or his trousers daubed with mud or dust by his neighbor. 
But this paradisiacal state is disturbed often by the wilful 
intrusion of the thirteenth man. 

Shall I attempt to portray him ? He is known pretty 
well, and perhaps the picture will be recognized by 
others, if not by himself. Sometimes he may be seen 
standing at the corner of a street, lying in wait for the 
" 'bus." He is never known to walk towards its starting- 
place, or to wait for the next stage, lest he might be con- 
founded with the " twelve " by getting inside before the 
seats are filled. No ; he is nothing if not odd. His very 
hat never sits squarely upon his head like the hat of a 
gentleman. It is either elevated in front like a sopho- 
more's, or depressed on one side as if he had just come 
from a cheap spree in the Bowery, or as if he were troubled 
with some obtrusive "bump " that kept his hat awry. If 
by chance he gets a seat inside the omnibus, he must 
cross his legs and wipe the mud from his ill-shod feet 
upon your trousers or your wife's dress. 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 23 1 

Did he invent the vice of sitting cross-legged in a 
public vehicle ? Do savages ever sit in this manner when 
in close company ? I have never been able to imagine 
what special human sin this ingenious mode of annoyance 
was meant to punish. It has been suggested that it might 
be this man's pantomimic protest against sitting at all. 
The saddest commentary upon this vice of our hero is, 
that by a mysterious magnetism of awkwardness and 
ill-breeding he has betrayed into imitation of it some 
men whose early education has been less neglected than 
his own. 

Sometimes, as he gets into the " ' bus," he carries in his 
hand or mouth the stump of a half-burned, extinct cigar, 
which fills the atmosphere with a rank and sickening odor. 
Frequently his well-worn black clothes reek with noisome 
exhalations of stale pipe-smoke. Shall I finish his picture ? 

I see him now in my mind's eye. I am riding down- 
town this morning in a Fifth Avenue omnibus. I have 
just handed up my fare, and, taking my seat, have sur- 
rendered myself to a sweet half hour of reverie. I disdain 
to spoil my eyes, or waste my time by newspaper reading. 
I dream ; and thus save my half hour for better things, 
as I fancy. 

The stage is full. " Twelve inside/' The driver does 
not seem to get along. He is constantly stopping or turn- 
ing his horses to the sidewalk, right or left. You wonder 
what is the matter. You begin to think the whole town 
is striving to get a ride down with you in that particular 
"'bus." At every street corner we linger or stop. Sud- 
denly the door is pulled open with a jerk, and our enemy 
leaps in. He sees the seats are filled ; but he does not 



232 R UMINA T10NS. 

hesitate. There is always room for him. Indeed, his 
spirit rises with the occasion. He becomes pertinacious 
as he is offensive. He tramples upon more than one pair 
of feet in his struggle to reach the middle of the convey- 
ance. The passengers patiently submit to the intrusion, 
with that quiet good nature with which Americans usually 
suffer imposition, and public invasion of good manners or 
petty social rights. They seem to feel they can " stand 
it " if he can. 

His mode of paying his fare evolves a climax of be- 
wildering impertinence. In order to have the free use of 
one hand, to pass his money to the box or driver, he grasps 
his cane or umbrella with the other hand by which he 
holds the rail or pendent strap. By this means he loses 
control of the lower end of his stick, which thereby be- 
comes an automatic instrument of torture, menacing your 
face and eyes in quite a savage way. Indeed, his apparant 
unconsciousness that he is a nuisance really approaches 
the innocence of a wild animal. 

He appears to be a pet of the driver. Some thoughtless 
people wonder the drivers of omnibuses or street-cars 
should feel so charitably disposed toward the human 
family in general, as sometimes to take up even a crowd 
of extra passengers when all seats are filled. Short-sighted 
simpletons ! Do you not see the pith of it ? The more 
passengers, beyond the complement of the " 'bus/' or car, 
the more uncounted perquisites available for an ill-requited 
profession. 

To return to our black sheep. Look where he stands. 
As he grows tired he grasps the straps on either side in 
order to steady himself. His attitude now appears to be 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 233 

a cunningly devised mode of tormenting his fellow-pas- 
sengers. Either elbow of our nondescript just reaches 
the hat of your opposite neighbor or yourself. With each 
jolt of the vehicle, by a little dexterity of movement — or 
the want of it — he can knock their-hats over the eyes of 
two persons at a time; and by a slight shifting of his posi- 
tion he can frequently bring down even four hats by a 
single spasmodic lunge. 

When he is fresh, as in the morning, and can hold his 
own weight, he falls however, into his more natural pos- 
ture. Would you know what that may be ? Did you 
ever observe one of the supposed descendants of the " lost 
tribes " who once inhabited some parts of Chatham street, 
dreamily waiting for a passing rustic ? He is apparently 
in a comatose state. His abdomen is drawn in ; his body 
is bent like a section of a hoop ; his eyes are cast down ; 
while both his hands are thrust deeply into his trouser's 
pockets. 

But I am weary of the subject, and stop by commending 
the thirteenth man in the omnibus to curiosity-hunters, as 
a fungous growth of humanity, nursed by the over- virtuous 
forbearance of a suffering public. 

A Miserable Man. 

Miser was a tall gaunt man of nearly seventy. His 
hair was thin, and, like his beard, dry, loose, and iron- 
gray. His face was seamed with wrinkles, his eyes dull 
but sly and cunning. He stooped a good deal when 
standing or walking. There was a little appearance of 
feebleness or shambling in his gait. This might have 



234 & UMINA T/OATS. 

been the result of years, but seemed rather an involun- 
tary and necessary betrayal of what might be called his 
furtiveness of character. 

I had known him many years, but my acquaintance 
with his personal history was slight. He was formerly a 
practising lawyer in the city of New York, where I had 
met him. His class of cases had led him chiefly into the 
Courts, at a time when much of the business of the legal 
profession of the city was small in importance. Suits for 
slander, libel, assault and battery, and trespass were then 
far more frequent in the old courts of record than nowa- 
days. As this kind of " practice " gradually fell into a 
sort of disrepute, and such legal affairs as are transacted 
almost wholly in an office became more engrossing and 
lucrative to him, he had been heard less of in public. 

He was neither a good speaker nor a sound thinker. 
He could address neither a jury nor a court well or 
effectively. He was, however, a shrewd practising attor- 
ney — wonderfully versed in fees and costs, in petty 
devices and crafty expedients. By great diligence and 
thrift he had accumulated a good deal of money. He 
had indeed kept all he got. He had sagaciously invested 
his savings, and now T he was rich by the chances of the 
times — although he had been only a working lawyer 

I overtook him one morning going down-town. We 
walked together and I purposely set him talking. His 
easiest theme was himself. In fact that person had al- 
ways been the central figure in all his serious views of 
life. His chief maxim had been, and still was : Proxi- 
mus sum, egomet mihi. He was childless, a widower, 
and past the hope of safely marrying again. 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 2$$ 

He did not relish the subject of family affection, 
when our talk drifted in that direction. His discourse 
was indeed melancholy, and mostly disheartening. He 
had, as he confessed, lived, struggled, and toiled solely for 
himself. Business cares and the searching out of ways 
and means to possess wealth had, until within a few years 
past, occupied all his thoughts and busied all his time. 
Now he had more accumulated money in his possession 
than he could use fairly for himself during the possible 
remnant of his life. He had no longer any need of at- 
tending to business for lucre, nor had he any remaining 
love for work. Neither had he now — strange to say — a 
greed for money-getting, sufficiently absorbing to make 
him forgetful of his morbid consciousness of self-worth- 
lessness. His desire to amass wealth was gone. This 
latter failure involved, in his view, the utterly stale un- 
profitableness of all else besides. He had worn out the 
one string in his harp of life, and, singularly, had sur- 
vived even avarice. His loud lament to me was, that " he 
had nothing to do ! " 

I reminded him that he had known many celebrities of 
the Bar, and had seen much of what had now passed 
away — the reminiscences of which would doubtless enter- 
tain and instruct those just coming before the public in 
his profession. Then why not at least amuse himself 
writing gossipy sketches — biographical or incidental — of 
those he had familiarly known ; also of what events he 
had seen or participated in, or of what had occurred 
generally in his time — among judges, lawyers, and suit- 
ors since gone to their long account ; or of celebrated 
causes — their scenes, events, trials, arguments and so on ? 



236 R UM2NA T10NS. 

He might perhaps live over again and re-enjoy his hap- 
piest days. 

"Ah!" he said, with a despairing sigh, "who would 
read them ? " I replied encouragingly, — " The young — 
those advancing in the profession ; indeed, probably the 
public in general." He might illustrate a principle, em- 
balm a good example, inculcate some wise precept — 
never stale, but always to be kept fresh and green — by 
striking illustration before the rising generation. 

" Alas ! " said he, with a tone of voice lower down in 
hypochondriacal depths than before, " I don't know 
these people and I take no interest in them. The truth 
is, I have no longer any zest for life. My contempora- 
ries and friends have all retired from this mortal stage, 
and I am left standing alone — awkwardly waiting for the 
curtain to drop. Not even my surviving relatives inter- 
est my sympathies. They could not hide from me — were 
they to make the attempt, which they do not — the fact 
that they are looking forward eagerly to my welcome 
demise and the joyous cutting up of my estate ! " 

Not finding any encouragement, I was forced to 
recognize a case of atrophy of the heart and to cease 
my endeavors to resurrect this moral cadaver. It was 
dried up ! 

An Unlucky Man's Story. 

We had known each other long. Our opportunities 
for getting on in life had not been dissimilar. While 
however I was running always close to the wind, luck 
seemed to wait upon my friend Felix, and easily to fill 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 237 

his sails. Once I ventured to ask him why he was fav- 
ored so much more, and how he had compassed so much 
more of the substantial goods of life than myself. He 
frankly answered : — " I too sometimes have been dis- 
posed to think you the more unfortunate, but upon fuller 
reflection I doubt it. 

1 The reason why Fortune seems to have distributed 
her favors so unequally I suspect to be that I have taken 
more care to fortify against evil chances than yourself. 
Were I to count even my mere pecuniary losses, I believe 
I could show a heavier black list than you. But very 
early in my practical life I began to make up, and set 
aside, what a stockbroker would call a ' margin/ for 
misfortune. 

" As in my conduct I believe I have endeavored to 
pursue what I supposed to be a just course — without be- 
ing elevated by praise or depressed by blame, letting the 
elevation of the one be a set-off as it were against the 
depression of the other — so in like manner I strove 
always to keep in mind the obvious truth that, owing to 
a difference of surroundings, inequality of results, from 
equal human effort, is a normal condition of things, and 
naturally to be expected. In effect I was ever mindful 
that, in order to be well provided against the assaults of 
ill-fortune, one should accept an excess of good luck as 
something to be put aside, and kept in reserve, to make 
up the deficiency likely to result from the next bad turn. 
Thus (if you will pardon my priggishness) I would say I 
avoided, by discipline, both dejection and the pride of 
prosperity — easily keeping steadily on in the even tenor 
of my way. 



238 R UMINA TIONS. 

" To illustrate : if I were to draw a prize in a lottery 
I would not say to my friends : ' Lo, here is a boon of 
Providence, let us spend it in merriment and extrava- 
gance/ On the contrary I would say to myself : 'This 
year the tree bears a double burden of fruit, another year 
it may be barren — I simply have my next crop in ad- 
vance/ I also made it a rule, whenever bad luck touched 
me, to renew, and, as far as practicable, even redouble 
my exertions, merely in order to disperse the vapors of 
despondency ; — so that in the end ill-luck, no less than 
its opposite, often resulted in a material advantage to 
myself." 

This surprising statement led me to say : — " How 
then did you avoid the inevitable consequences of this 
line of conduct ? By natural sequence it seems you 
should have become a thorough miser, but I do not find 
you have made any headway toward sordidness." He 
rejoined : — " Not only as a matter of principle, and from 
inclination or taste, but also as a part of my plan and 
policy in the conduct of life, I have always lived expen- 
sively. I have spent a great deal of my income in grati- 
fying the tastes of those around me — not forgetting (if I 
may say it) to give liberally to those who needed and de- 
sired my practical sympathy. Such conduct, besides 
tending surely to keep the heart open to charity, checks 
the tendency to grow miserly/' 

Our conversational episode having ended abruptly, 
I was awakened to the melancholy discovery that my 
state of hand-to-mouth impecuniosity had not come by 
chance, so much as by my own wilful improvidence, 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 239 

A Mean Man. 

A mean man is one who spends no money for himself 
but his own, and uses no property not belonging to him. 
He never borrows what he does not intend to repay. 
Neither is he lavish or even liberal in giving or loaning 
another's goods. He was a mean man of whom it was 
said : — " He got rich by minding his own business. ,, He 
has no stomach for superfluities, and is therefore called 
niggardly. With him enough is as good as a feast. More 
than sufficient is not only wasteful extravagance, but a 
burdensome annoyance. 

When I was a little boy I was taken by my mother to 
supper at the house of a Quaker. There being no servant 
waiting at the table, and, seeing that an aged Friend 
who sat beside me was not served with the chipped beef, 
I timidly volunteered to offer him the plate. Imagine my 
terror when he turned, and, fixing his mildly severe blue 
eyes upon me, said with deliberation, but so loudly and 
distinctly as to attract the attention of the whole table to 
my indiscretion : — " Thou seest I have cheese." Unques- 
tionably in the outside world he would be called a mean 
man. 

The mean man is content to be just. True, he gives 
and takes like other men — among his equals. But if he 
bestow charity, or benefactions, it will be upon those who 
need aid and who try to help themselves. He is intolerant 
of drones and spendthrifts. 

A mean man is one who has not acquired the art of 
being esteemed a man of great liberality, either by plun- 
dering the public and giving to charity, or from the cir- 



240 R UMINA TIONS. 

cum stance of parting with a small, near advantage, in the 
sure expectation of reaping a large remote personal reward. 
He neither can rob the few to give to the many ; nor the 
reverse. He has not the adroitness to throw away one 
card, in the game of life, in order to ensure the retaking of 
two — while posing as a model of disinterested benevolence. 

He lacks the necessary imagination and recklessness 
(even if he had the inclination) to make a rogue. Although 
heartily despised by the thoughtless and the improvident, 
at the least always he will be rightfully esteemed honest ; 
for his motto, in all his dealings, is to owe no man any- 
thing and to render unto every one his due. 

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, he is inclined to 
expect that others, in their dealings with himself, will do 
likewise. Hence even his friends call him an " exact " man; 
while to the eye of the world, that likes to reap where it 
has not sown, he always appears to be a mean man. 

It was said of the late Duke of Bedford : — " Having 
begun life as a very poor man, he had contracted the habit 
of close attention to details of expenditure, and this habit 
passed with superficial observers for stinginess. He had 
the liveliest dislike of being cheated or overcharged, and 
he insisted on knowing the application of every disburse- 
ment he was called on to make. But when these require- 
ments were satisfied, there were no bounds to his liberality, 
and where charitable giving was concerned he preferred 
that it should be anonymous/' 

A Man on Horseback. 

He was a long, lean, yellowish-gray man. His hair, 
skin ? and dress were each buff and gray intermingled, 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 24 1 

His horse, lean as himself — long and rawboned — was a 
dingy sorrel. The man's legs dangled and the horse's 
legs sprawled. I laughed aloud when I saw these figures 
in the distance ahead of me. When I came up with him, 
while I was trying to keep my countenance, he saluted 
me, and we soon fell into a hap-hazard conversation. 
He talked much at random, as if thinking aloud ; scarcely 
heeding what I might say, even in answer to some of his 
rather impertinent questions. He seemed most happy 
when indulging in loose speculations uttered in a fierce 
declamatory style. I could but look and listen, with no 
little wonder at what manner of man this might be, whom 
I had thus encountered one early winter morning while 
riding in the city park. He professed to be a citizen ; 
having lately come here to live from some distant 
country town. 

As we returned and were approaching the Fifth Ave- 
nue exit of the park, just as the sun was rising, he 
suddenly wheeled his horse a little nearer to my own, 
and looking off toward some newly-built and rather ele- 
gant dwelling-houses, near the park gate, of which I had 
previously spoken as well-designed, he exclaimed (as if 
addressing the buildings) with startling abruptness : — 
" But what is there in this life anyway ? Nothing ! What 
is the use of living ? None — except to fit ourselves for 
the next world. This is but a stepping-stone to an here- 
after. Why, man knows nothing. What does a man 
know ? I would like to have any gentleman tell me 
what man knows." This was delivered in a very high 
key — almost a yell. " True, we are told by the scien- 
tific that sound is produced by the vibration of the air, 
16 



242 R UMINA TIONS. 

But how does it produce it ? That is the question. So 
they say these rocks are held together by molecular at- 
traction ? But what is that ? Who has seen it ? Man 
knows only what he sees. Bah ! There is nothing in 
what he does see. Man knows one thing, and that is all 
knows. He knows the way to salvation. Good morning ! " 
This was the last I ever saw or heard of my mysteri- 
ous equestrian companion. I often afterwards looked for 
him ; but he seemed to have accomplished his mission 
toward me, and then to have vanished into the air, never 
to reappear. 

The Widow. 

I saw her in a city railroad car. My attention was first 
drawn to her wedding-rings. She wore five upon one 
finger. As she held up her thin hands, I began involun- 
tarily to count the epochs of her life ; — very much as you 
would attempt to determine the age of a cow by the rings 
upon her horns. My guesses about her personal history 
grew very amusing — to myself. She seemed to be a per- 
son possessing great vitality, but not of the kind which 
belongs to people who give it to others, She was rather 
of that class who absorb the vitality of their neighbors. 

I return to the rings. They were unlike in their degrees 
of thickness and apparently in their ages. The one 
lowest on the finger, or nearest the palm of the hand, 
was lightest ; the next stronger and less worn, and so on 
till the last, which was still quite thick, fresh, and nearly 
new. Sometimes, as her eyes fell upon them, she, with 
her other hand, would press them back ; — as if perhaps 
to assure herself there was still room for more. 



SHREDS OF CHARACTER. 243 

She could not have been far from forty-five years of 
age ; but her brow was smooth and serene, without a mark 
of care or anxiety, and indeed was indicative of a promise 
of constant youth. Her neck was slender, her face thin 
and her figure neither angular nor quite plump ; but some- 
thing midway between. Her hair was a glossy, pure black, 
her complexion that of a brunette, but clear and healthy, 
her teeth small, regular, and well preserved, yet looked 
sharp and decidedly rodential. Indeed her thin face, vul- 
pine jaw, and glittering teeth suggested that she might 
become dangerous to a man whenever she should set her 
head in his way. Her dress was mostly of simple black, 
with a little vigorous white rigidly peeping out here and 
there ; — as it were protesting against absolute widowhood, 
and giving her a rather determined appearance — as if she 
had "business " before her. 

She had moreover throughout a kind of self-satisfied, 
yet withal a hungry look, as though to say : " I have done 
much to be sure, but I would like to do more ; " — and, as 
if she thought it fully as blessed for others to give, as for 
her to receive. In fine the impression she made was not 
altogether pleasant ; and being myself a single young man 
— sometimes called a good-looking fellow — an undefined 
dread seized me, such as appears to thrill and startle the fowls 
of a barnyard, while the shadow of a hovering hawk falls 
among them. When she left the car her very dress seemed 
to rustle aggressively ; — but I felt better after she had gone. 

Confidences. 

I once knew a woman who seemed insensibly to inspire 
— even in those who became only slightly acquainted 



244 R UMINA TIONS. 

with her — the conviction that she was always heartily 
in full sympathy with them. 

It was a common circumstance with her to be made the 
recipient — often unwillingly on her part and never sought 
for by her — of the confidential disclosure of personal 
secret experiences by her casual associates, as well as by 
her more intimate friends. 

As a matter of fact she had less than ordinary heart- 
felt interest in those who thus confided in her ; but 
somehow, through her large mental capacity — combin- 
ing imagination with knowledge of the world — she so 
readily divined and thoroughly comprehended what was 
revealed to her, without too circumstantial detail of mat- 
ters painful to recount, that she seemed unavoidably to 
win these unreserved confidences of others. 

As a curious phenomenon I used to study her manner 
in order to penetrate this mystery ; and, aside from her 
wonderful moral intuition, I observed that she never 
asked a question or betrayed surprise. By this means 
she left the impression of a total absence of personal 
curiosity (a vulgar trait pretty sure to extinguish the warm 
gush of confidential revelations) and an apparently full 
anticipatory consciousness of all that was either told or sup- 
pressed ; — without inquisitively waiting to hear, or stopping 
to conjecture, whether there was more to be disclosed. 

Moreover she impressed those who thus talked with her 
as one placing implicit faith in what was said ; and yet as 
being one from whom it was not only useless but unfair 
to attempt to conceal anything. 

In respect to the use made by her of this extraordinary 
knowledge and information., a good deal of watchfulness 



OF CHARACTER. 2d& 

enables me also to say that she never betrayed a confi- 
dence or repeated gossip. Though always full to exu- 
berance of talk about circumstances and things, she 
seldom or never mentioned a person or personal events, 
or common hearsay about either. 

A Beautiful Woman. 

She was a " Beauty/' both within and without. Nature 
seemed to have enjoyed her own handiwork, and had 
inspired this lovely model with a joyous spirit of apparently 
unending youth. The boundless elasticity and freshness 
of a magnetic temperament made her appear, both to her- 
self and others, always young. Indeed, to be consistent, 
she ought never to have grown in years. 

After she had passed forty-five she was an embodied 
anachronism. Her person — although still exquisitely fair 
— no longer quite harmonized with the soul she possessed. 
While in joyfulness of manner she remained a bright girl, 
she startled the eye by appearing as a gray-haired grand- 
mother. She moved triumphantly through life's troubles, 
always gay and brilliant, careless of the shadows of the 
past, and radiant as a butterfly, flitting from one object to 
another in unbroken summer sunshine. When death took 
her at threescore she had not languished or faded, as 
other mortals do, for even in her shroud she was as sur- 
passingly beautiful as she had been in her prime of health 
and juvenile loveliness. 

A Shy Man. 

He was as timid in his intercourse with the world, as a 
little maiden. In character he was not unlike those eggs 



246 R UMINA TIONS. 

we sometimes find — with no lime in their shell — which 
take something of the shape of whatever touches them. 
He appeared to have no moral vertebrae. He shrank from 
both public gaze and private scrutiny. His sub-conscious- 
ness seemed to be the outer covering, instead of inner 
core, of his personality. Being morbidly super-sensitive 
to the possibility of a refusal or a rebuff — while he con- 
stantly gave freely of his money, personal attention, and 
even influence, such as it was, to benefit others — he seldom 
accepted and never asked a favor for himself. Through- 
out life he courted obscurity, as a favorite, and found her 
a not unwilling mistress. " Blessed are they," said he, 
"of whom the world expects nothing, for theirs is the 
jewel of real independence." 

A Moral Vagabond. 

Though an accomplished scholar and accustomed to 
society ; having good social position, with large acquaint- 
ance among both men and women ; himself of exception- 
ally clever conversational powers, of agreeable manners, 
pleasing personal appearance and easy address ; yet he 
was a bore. Why was he a failure ? He had no earnest- 
ness or purpose in life. He seemed to be incapable of 
accomplishing or even of having any definite aim. His 
sentiments and opinions were fragmentary, or for the 
most part at war with the settled axioms of the society in 
which he moved. Indeed, he belonged nowhere. He 
was too insignificant to be a power, when standing alone, 
and he was no part of anything. He was simply himself 
— clever enough — but passed for a social idiot, and a 
moral vagabond ! 



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SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 



O vitae philosophia dux ! . . . Tu urbes peperisti ; tu dissi- 

patos homines in societatem convocasti. 

Cicero. 

Society. 



AN, when contemplated individually, and man, 
when considered socially — or as a part of 
that human aggregation commonly called 
society — appears to be (both by outward 
manifestation and by inward character) of two widely 
different natures — at the least in many important par- 
ticulars. A man, regarded as a separate being, may 
be said to be a specific product of nature, modified, from 
the ideal possibilities of his race, by the law and evolu- 
tion of heredity, by the impulses, traits, and restraints of 
his peculiar identity, by the accidents and opportunities 
of his personal, social, political, or legal surroundings, 
and by the exercise of his own will and faculties ; — sub- 
ject, however, to the natural results of all these circum- 
stances when combined. 

But how shall we analyze or define society — civil 
society, associated humanity, " the world " — an organiza- 
tion founded, in the beginning, upon the wants and fears 

247 



248 R UMINA TIONS. 

of mankind, but grown by development and accretion 
into something so artificial that it has changed or swal- 
lowed up much of what is purely natural in human inter- 
course ? What is it not ? The family, the neighborhood, 
the voluntary association, the corporation, the community, 
the town, the country, the state, the nation, the whole 
inhabited universe — all are its forms or elements. Man, 
in his relations with his Maker, with his immediate neigh- 
bor, with himself, each individual may somewhat under- 
stand — at least after his own fashion. But who can 
comprehend the boundless and innumerable traits, or 
factitious ingredients, of society ? What are the sources 
or the limits of its powers, its laws, its rights, its duties ? 
Who made them ? By what authority do they exist ? 
Consent ? Acquiescence ? Contract ? Usurpation ? 
Force ? What is the proof of the essence of their obliga- 
tion ? Who but itself, or its viceroys, in the last analysis, 
decides upon the extent, validity or effect of its self- 
constituted sovereign will and power ? 

In most Christian communities there is but little serious 
popular discussion, among happy well-regulated circles, 
as to any of these matters in the abstract ; and men 
generally find greater personal advantage, in practically 
interpreting them to suit their special local or communal 
needs and interests, than by questioning any prevailing 
opinion concerning their origin or authority. Neverthe- 
less there are some bases of society, never to be lost 
sight of, and to which it is often not unprofitable 
to appeal ; — especially whenever private interests, dis- 
guised as public rights, claim to enter the domain 
of unjustifiable usurpation. Among its recognized im- 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 249 

mutable foundations are prominently first, a common 
human nature, with its instinctive struggle for self- 
preservation — usually called selfishness — qualified by 
personal affection, love of the general good-will of others, 
and sometimes by a conscientious, or expedient, notion 
of duty to a neighbor or even an alien ; and next, the 
necessity of making large concessions to the mere claim 
of our neighbors in general, in order to live peaceably 
with or near them. 

Again, besides religion, there are the acquired materials 
of the composition of society — the maxims, formulas, 
tendencies, restraints, and limitations, which a concourse 
of ages has stamped upon it, with an indelible brand, as 
rules and characteristics for its continued inheritance and 
transmission. To these may be added the obligations of 
its history, and the domination of its policy, its laws, its 
precedents, its customs ; — to say nothing of its unbounded 
power (and sometimes shameless tyranny) frequently 
exercised over some natural rights of an individual or 
of a class, evolved from its assumption of a so-called 
" police-power " and general political sovereignty. Nor 
can we lay out of our calculation the influences — open 
or secret, avowed or denied — of communities themselves 
interacting upon each other in their relative political, 
social, or natural functions. Then, over all, in our 
reckoning we must take into the account society's con- 
sciousness of the reason of its existence, its traditionary 
instinct of self-preservation at all hazards, and the need 
that, in order to perpetuate itself, it shall appear to its 
own members — if not to all mankind — to strive to accom- 
plish the object for which it was originally, or gradually, 



250 R UMINA T/ONS. 

self-established. To this end also certain other large 
definite purposes, always, at the least nominally, must be 
kept clearly in view. 

Suffice it to name some of these purposes : — to make 
the government of society appear to be administered (so 
far as may be practicable) in such manner as to benefit 
all and to injure none materially — certainly not unneces- 
sarily — also to establish justice among all ; to restrain the 
strong from trespassing upon, or neutralizing, the rights 
or privileges of, the weak ; to keep the ministers of all 
public functions ever mindful of the axiom that fidelity 
to trust is the only purpose of, or excuse for, their hold- 
ing office ; to avoid the natural tendency of political 
power to use its strength, for the continuous benefit of 
its possessors — by the oppression of those from whom it 
indirectly derives the very means of thus selfishly per- 
petuating itself ; and finally to raise the means for only 
just and necessary expenses of its due administration, by 
equal taxation ; — doing this latter always in such manner 
as to procure the largest public revenue with the least 
private inconvenience or partiality among those who, 
directly or indirectly, bear its burdens. 

Perhaps too it may not be inapposite here, in this little 
peep at the skeleton of society, to advert — parenthetically 
at least — to the common observation that associated 
humanity not seldom keeps a special conscience, or 
recognizes rules of right and wrong, and regulates its 
actions by a standard of virtue (or the want of it) that 
individual human nature would blush to own. For we 
all know that officers of secular corporations, vestrymen 
of religious societies, members of voluntary associations. 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 25 I 

or even high public functionaries (in their conglomerate 
capacity) will not unfrequently advocate measures, and 
act upon principles, which, as merely private men, they 
would not hesitate to hold up (as they ought) to the 
execration of mankind. 

Great Fortunes in America. 

Perhaps the least objectionable, if not the wisest, tes- 
tament ever made, contained the bequest by a penniless 
father to his able-bodied son. " I give to my beloved 
son, John, one thousand pounds sterling," said the dying 
man. " Why ! what does that mean ? " inquired his 
amazed solicitor — either having no sense of humor, or 
not expecting a jest at such a moment — "you have not 
a tithe of a thousand pounds in the world." 

" No matter for that," replied the philosopher ; " it 
is my will that he should have it ; — and I wish him to 
work and earn it." 

There was, I am sure, no quarrelling over this legacy. 
They who got less, and the cousins-german who were left 
out altogether, did not employ attorneys — hungry for " fat 
contentions and litigious fees " — at champertous rates 
of per centage, to dispute the soundness of mind of the 
testator, or to prove an undue influence, exercised by 
John over a doting father, in extremis. No jealous heart- 
burnings were excited, among the disinherited next-of- 
kin, over any supposed inequality of favor. The meanest 
poor-relation could admit that John got his just deserts ; 
and no more or less. As chief legatee he would not be 
called upon to divide with other beneficiaries. Neither 



252 R UMINA TIONS. 

would the residuary legatees complain of a senile infatu- 
ation. In short, the most cynical would approve this 
just disposition of the testators bounty — without a cavil. 

How much better for John, than if he had been left a 
pecuniary fortune in hand ; relying upon which he might 
have abandoned his school-books, and set up himself as 
a young man of society ; — with nothing to do besides 
spending money, and perhaps making a fool of himself, 
conspicuously. 

To a sensitive man, the controversies possible to arise 
in these days over the division of his estate, after his 
death, would seem enough to deter him from desiring to 
accumulate much beyond a provision for the real wants 
— present and prospective — of his immediate family and 
himself. An aged farmer, in his dying hours, was ob- 
served to be suffering some keen mental anguish. When 
asked what troubled him, he replied that he was fancy- 
ing how he might suffer if he should be tempted to peep 
out from some loop-hole of the next world, and could 
see what shameless quarrels his sons were having in the 
division of his farm. When the great Rachel, at the 
height of her fame, was playing at a Broadway theatre, 
in some critical situation, she held her audience in breath- 
less wonder, before she spoke a word. A friend felt a 
great curiosity to know precisely what contending feel- 
ings, evolved by the circumstances, had given her the 
almost superhuman expression of face, figure, and atti- 
tude, that had so electrified all who saw her. She 
frankly confessed to him she was not thinking at all of 
her part in the play ; but, at the moment referred to, 
there had flashed into her mind a notion of what havpc 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 2$3 

the vultures among her family surely would make of her 
property as soon as she was in her grave. 

When a virtuous man, of moderate means, composes 
his limbs for the exit from this world, he safely may sup- 
pose his memory will be respected as much as it deserves. 
But what frightful chimeras nowadays must haunt the 
death-bed of a man who successfully has given his life- 
long strength — laborious days and sleepless nights — to 
amassing a vast fortune ! If he have imagination, ever 
so little, the roots of his hair probably will be excited some- 
what at such a time. But if he have much clairvoyant 
power of forecast, how vivid may be his apprehensions 
of what will follow his demise ! First a hasty autopsy — 
to search for symptoms of mental unsoundness, or per- 
haps traces of foul play by those who have watched 
tenderly his exhaling spirit — set on foot by some of his 
relatives who have had least sympathy with him during 
his life. Perhaps even his grave will be desecrated — 
after a decent Christian burial — to find some possible 
idiosyncrasy in his remains that shall furnish ground for 
speculative conjecture to additional surgical specialists ; 
— egged on probably by ghoulish lawyers. 

Next may come the scandalous legal controversies over 
his will and the disposal of his estate — however judicious 
— all scattered by newspapers over the land ; — horrible 
suspicions arising from the conflict of experts in physical 
and mental dissection ; an exposure of every foible in his 
conduct or character, and then a calcium light thrown 
upon every equivocal detail of the privacy of his whole 
career — long after all surrounding circumstances are for- 
gotten, and there is no living witness to give an honest 



254 & UMINA TIONS. 

clue to the villainous travesties of his motives, or to the 
incoherent and disunited facts, that crop out in the misty 
recollections, or fancies, of his rivals or enemies ; — to say 
nothing of the diabolical innuendos of traditional gossip, 
the paternity of which is lost among weird shadows. 

Finally, after the public has been made sick to loathing, 
by this foul feast of harpies, and it would seem as if the 
unfortunate Dives might be permitted at least to keep 
his body in the tomb — if even that be not stolen by an- 
other set of freebooters — suddenly may appear, as if 
coming out of the air, like Macbeth's witches, a countless 
flock of impromptu widows ; — each claiming her life- 
interest in a third of his landed estate, yet willing — for 
love and peace sake — to abate proportionately her claims, 
provided that, together, they may have the whole of it ! 
Surely to such a death-bed vision the fate of Midas must 
seem Elysian in the comparison. 

Shakespeare's Henry IV., seems to have felt the pangs 
of dying more excruciatingly from something not unlike 
such a view, when he broke out upon his sons : — 

See, sons, what things you are ! 
How quickly nature runs into revolt 
When gold becomes her object ! 
For this the foolish, over-careful fathers 
Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, 
Their bones with industry ; 
For this they have engrossed and piled up 
The cankered heaps of strange-achieved gold ; 
For this they have been thoughtful to invest 
Their sons with arts, and martial exercises ; 
When, like the bee, tolling from every flower 
The virtuous sweets ; 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 2$$ 

Our thighs packed with wax, our mouths with honey, 
We bring it to the hive ; and, like the bees, 
Are murdered for our pains. 

What can compensate a man for so shocking an abuse 
of his labors and his memory ? Has he been upon a false 
scent all his life ? Was the mainspring of his life-long 
exertions an illusion — a fictitious and wholly misplaced 
ideal ? With the best of motives, and with the most self- 
denying sacrifice of much that could have made his life 
lovely — and at least might have made him a participant 
in the bounty of his own fortune, or have given him some 
taste of the happiness of self-enjoyment — has not his 
career been a failure, his prospective castle in the air a 
tower of Babel, full of the confusion of babbling tongues ? 

Even if his will shall be respected, and 

Large was his bounty and his soul sincere, 

yet perhaps he has made a crowd of ingrates, who will 
dishonor his name by riotous living, and who will be 
hostile to the spirit of the republican society to which he 
owed allegiance, and by means of which he gained his great 
wealth ? If they do not provoke envy and malice among 
the less fortunate, by foolish ostentation of riches, may 
they not furnish an unedifying example in other ways to 
the great mass of the rising generation, who must toil and 
spin, or starve ? 

It would, however, be wantonly wrong, even to insinuate 
that all who are partakers of munificent testamentary 
bounty bring discredit upon inherited wealth. Our land 
is dotted over with too many magnificent temples of 



2 5 6 R UMINA TIO ATS. 

religion, palaces of art, academies of learning, schools of 
the useful arts, hospitals of charity, and caravansaries of 
timely aid and improvement to both the helpless and self- 
helpful — founded or supported by the wisdom and benevo- 
lence of those who were born rich — to leave a doubt 
concerning the existence of innumerable exceptions. 
Still they are none the less exceptional ; — although the 
names of such benefactors will endure the more honored, 
so long as human nature continues to appreciate a good 
deed or a worthy motive. Yet it must be conceded that 
the general tendency of inherited wealth in this country 
seems to be to make men and women over self-indulgent ; 
and to put a conspicuous class of our citizens a good 
deal out of harmony with American ideas. 

Why is it then, that a man still " heapeth up riches " 
not knowing " who shall gather them ? " There is indeed 
a good deal of exciting pleasure to some in the mere 
chase for money. Nay, there is a secret satisfaction in 
having more than enough for the present, or even the 
emergencies of accident, sickness, and old age. As Horace 
says : — 

suave est ex magno tollere acervo. 

The " big pile " has its fascinations. To some others 
— perhaps a large number — it is an immense gratification 
to have the means of satisfying the benevolent sympathies 
of heart and soul — feeling and pride — for those near and 
dear, as well as toward struggling humanity in the world 
at large. Besides, with still others, there is the lust of 
avarice, that clasps a man's whole moral and intellectual 
nature in its gripe, and transforms him into a monster 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 2$J 

that craves to raven all that may be gotten. But these 
are not all. Nor do they fairly exemplify the general 
rule under which so many great fortunes are accumulated 
in America. Other ruling motives are notoriously prev- 
alent. Many hope now, as men did in former days, 
under a different political and social system, to found a 
family, and to ennoble their posterity by putting their 
children in the possession of transmitted wealth. 

Some of the evils of our present condition appear to 
have their root in traditional or foreign ideas, sentiments, 
or prejudices, which are not in harmony with the sounder 
growth of social agencies among us. Such notions are 
sometimes, as it were, part of an obsolete system, the 
framework of which, by reason of its solidity, has outlasted 
the use for which it was originally contrived or adopted. 
Not a little of this state of things is perhaps due to the 
fact that the social thought and manners of this country 
have been nourished so long by the literature of foreign 
peoples ; — in the absence of a strong original, native 
body of American letters. It is the flattering hope of 
some, however, that the recognition of the right of literary 
property (which is really the kernel of our new copyright 
law) in time may work a radical change, in this respect, 
in the intellectual food of the great mass of the American 
people. 

Modern society was feudal in its origin ; — chiefs and clans, 
kings, nobles, and serfs. The commons were a later growth. 
The old order of society rested, in the last analysis, upon 
the assumed divine right of kings to govern, and was sus- 
tained by the hereditary power — political, social, and 

proprietary— of great families. But the feudal system is 
17 



258 £ UMINA TIONS. 

dead, root and branch, beyond possible resuscitation. 
Changeable personal property — and not inalienable 
estates — now constitutes the mass of the wealth of the 
world. The feudal spirit (however pleasing to the 
memory or imagination of an infatuated few) like the age 
of chivalry— which was its best embodiment — is gone, 
never to return. The French Revolution as a political 
and social evangel — despite its horrors— and commerce 
with its new wings, given by steam and electricity, have 
changed all that. The social power of wealth has passed 
from the hands of a few pampered favorites of fortune 
into the hands of the many-headed people. There is no 
longer a rallying of the many to strengthen the hands of 
great traditionary families. On the contrary the once 
insignificant common people have gradually grown, and 
learned to combine, organize, and co-operate, so as to 
defy or destroy the power of the one supreme man, and 
his hereditary adherents. Kingship, as a historical symbol, 
may survive in some societies, near akin to our own ; but, 
as a self-sustaining power, or as a representative head of 
hereditary family power irrespective of popular opinion or 
will, it is merely a traditionary illusion — a feudal phantom. 
Where, then, as a civic factor, or as a basis of social 
prestige, shall we put family pride ? Family pride, when 
based upon blood and breeding — upon the recognition of 
a nobility of nature proved by deeds of heroism, self- 
sacrifice, and the exploits of magnanimity or genius — is a 
touch of divinity. It is a voice of nature, the recognition 
of which time cannot subdue in the human heart. The 
distinction thus earned — and naturally awarded to superior 
blood or race — so far as it is transmissible, may be left to 



SOCIAL MINTS AND STUDIES. 2$Q 

shift for itself, without wealth ; — except such as its inheri- 
tors may gather with their own hands. But, among us, 
mere wealth no longer can ennoble ; nor family prestige 
now be established and continued by money alone. 

One source of hindrance to the proper development of 
the fundamental elements of our society, as already sug- 
gested, lies in the fact that our young men and women, 
who are farthest removed from the struggle for exist- 
ence — and from whom the most fairly might be expected 
— often contribute least to the growth and improvement 
of social ideas in a legitimate direction. In many respects 
however they are blameless. Their parents foolishly have 
pampered their natural indolence, and nursed their incli- 
nation to extravagance ; at the same time quenching the 
spirit of independence and self-reliance born within them. 
Such parents, in many cases, in early life having passed 
through a Spartan discipline of poverty and privation — 
perhaps the stimulus, if not the source of all their virtues, 
or at least of their success in life — they think themselves 
serving the highest purpose of their existence, by giving 
their children an easy time, and enervating them into 
mere seekers after temporary and debilitating pleasure, or 
saunterers through life. 

Ease is well, and social pleasure is better — our lives 
would be juiceless and tasteless without them both — but 
ease is consistent with such reasonable labor as delights 
the liberal mind ; and pleasure may be had by seeking 
something besides dissipation or wholly frivolous amuse- 
ment. Ordinarily the manly spirit does not survive long 
a loss of individual personal merit, or of the pride of per- 
sonal independence. 



260 R UM1NA TIONS. 

Indeed it is one of the social eccentricities of our day, 
that in many instances a father, from his early manhood 
— misled by some effete traditionary influence — is really 
so far as it were a voluntary serf for his family, that a 
large part of his own moral and intellectual nature never 
has fair play. He may become little better than a machine 
to make and store money for the sake of transmitting it 
to those who under our social system are generally liable 
to be demoralized by the expectation of wealth, if not 
made mischievous members of our society by too easy a 
possession of it. 

Would it not be better for the race, if when a capable 
man-child is well-fitted, at the expense of his parents, for 
the battle of life, he should go forth into the world and 
win his spurs for himself ? That is the true method of 
recognizing the inevitable rule of evolution, toward a 
better state of individual manhood and of society ; — called 
the survival of the fittest. This old-fashioned notion may 
sound harshly to some effeminate ears. It would, how- 
ever, be misinterpreted and misapplied if it tended to 
take away a helping hand when needed by the weak or 
unfortunate, or to withdraw benevolence, kindness and 
sympathy from those whom nature or chance has classed 
among the incapables. Yet whatever system discourages 
the spirit of self-help and virile independence among the 
rising generation, saps the very foundation of our demo- 
cratic society. 

American Politics. 

Although our political system has safely passed one 
centennial climacteric, it is in fact — when its career is 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 26 1 

contrasted with the rise, duration, or fall of historic 
nations — yet in comparative infancy. The amalgama- 
tion of all the incoherent parts of a league of guasi-inde- 
pendent civil communities into a nation — preserving the 
autonomy of so many varying individual so-called States 
(whether ripening to any extent or only in premature 
blossom) which yet profess allegiance (or absolutely 
yield it) to the sovereignty of a Union over all of them — 
has proved itself to be a problem of a vast number of 
changeable and embarrassing factors in the art of public 
government Perhaps more centuries, at least, of absence 
of fatal civil convulsion must elapse before all the threat- 
ening forces involved can be adjusted, or its compara- 
tively permanent safety can be assured, with any real 
probability. Meanwhile, if the government survive there 
must be much dangerous friction and rough work ; — in- 
volving, often necessarily, monstrous injustice and ex- 
quisite tyranny to many — whether States, communities, 
or individuals. 

There appear to be now, however, at least three con- 
spicuously great human or personified powers diligently 
at work striving to direct and utilize the energies, posses- 
sions and opportunities of this marvellously active, mis- 
cellaneous, and indefinitely multiplying and increasing 
people. They may be rudely classified as the thinker or 
scholar, the politician, and the statesman. 

The First seems to be endeavoring to find a way of 
working out the scheme and purpose of this imposing 
Union through an honest conflict-of-opinion — having 
faith that in the end truth, or at least the true policy of 
this nascent nation, will prevail The Second power-^ 



262 R UMINA TIONS. 

standing nearer the mere masses of the people, and feel- 
ing beat in his veins the blood of an irrepressible, if not 
tyrannical, organized, apparent majority of that people, 
also partaking of their selfishness as well as short-sight- 
edness — cherishes and represents local enterprise and 
special individual or class interests. He naturally cares 
but little for the general or ideal good of the whole coun- 
try. He is prone to shape legislation through a mere 
conflict-of-interests — often practically doing great mis- 
chief and evolving rank injustice by disputing established 
principles, denying facts, iterating lies, and bargaining for 
a distribution of partial or private advantages, to the 
prejudice of the ultimate good of the people. The Third 
power — having some of the acquired sagacity of the sec- 
ond, but less reckless selfishness, coupled with much of 
the superior intelligence of the first — stands practically 
upon a higher plane than either. With a broader out- 
look he endeavors — though not always successfully — to 
put the nation in its proper relation to the whole civilized 
world ; — while having due regard to all the local and indi- 
vidual needs and interests of his own country. 

Having no apprehension of foreign foes to minimize 
the importance of our local affairs, or to teach us a 
necessity of economizing our resources, the Politician 
has, for the present — as during a large part of the past 
history of the Union he has had — greatly the upper hand. 
American politics hitherto have been too much if not 
chiefly the outgrowth— or crazy patch-work — of an in- 
creasing conflict of local interests. Through the want, 
until recently, of general education — of a broad, scientific, 
catholic, and accurate kind — concerning political ecou- 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 263 

omy, among our leading public men ; through the ming- 
ling with our native population of so many foreigners, 
who were born under, and habituated to, widely different 
political or social systems ; and through the shifting 
character and domicile of the masses of people congre- 
gating in the great cities ; our public opinion has been 
controlled largely by appeals to passion, prejudice, short- 
sighted self-interest, avarice, or ignorance. As Burke 
says : — " When the leaders strive to make themselves 
bidders at an auction of popularity . . . they will 
become flatterers instead of legislators — the instruments, 
not the guides, of the people. ,, 

The Politician, sinking to the level of his meanest 
work, himself steadily has deteriorated, until — from his 
point of vision or blindness — the notion of honor has 
evaporated into words, morality has become obsolete, 
and the habit of deception in political controversy or per- 
sonal ambition, has made fraud, peculation, bribery, or 
forgery a common method of his tribe. 

The Thinker, by his scholarship, thinking, and writing, 
lifts a few — especially among the better educated of the 
rising generation — up to his high stand-point, and, with 
devotion to and faith in the progress of humanity, still 
hopes unflinchingly and looks for a purer and better state 
of things. 

The Statesman watches the changes and growth of 
popular opinion and enlightenment (although it be, to the 
impatient, apparently as slow as the movement of a glacier) 
bides his time ; occasionally fixes a landmark that he 
trusts may stand forever ; bears frequent defeat with 
philosophic composure ; sets up again his guide-posts 



264 R UMINA TIONS. 

when they are knocked down ; and, as his own life-time 
wears away, passes on the watchwords of reform and pro- 
gress to younger men. Meanwhile, patiently but confi- 
dently he asks mankind to await the fuller development 
and more rightful direction of the now incalculable forces 
of this mighty democratic empire. 

Hitherto the excessive resources of our country — both 
in the prodigality of nature and in the energy and genius 
of our people, added to their inborn patient submissive- 
ness to the law of the land, however established — have 
enabled us to overcome, for the time, almost uncon- 
sciously, some of the necessary consequences of absolutely 
vicious legislation. 

The success of self -favoring class- interests, appears, 
however, to have begotten in many a sort of judicial 
blindness. Ignoring the instinctive love of fair play — a 
fair field and no favor — that lives in the blood of our 
native people, they have overlooked the rights of the 
innumerable silent classes, and are the dupes of a tem- 
porary triumph over the underlying laws of human society. 
Sooner or later, however, moral justice always vindicates 
herself when her laws have been violated. The recipients 
of governmental favor may flatter a government for a 
while in its apparent security ; but the end is usually 
nearest when aggressive injustice appears to be at its 
acme. The great French Revolution taught mankind a 
lesson of prudence in oppression, that, however tempor- 
arily unheeded, never will be forgotten wholly by the 
unsleeping among ourselves. 

As the interests of the American people grow more 
complex and vast, the temptations of those who are strong 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 26$ 

in wealth and political power to exercise oppression in- 
crease by opportunity. The unanticipated defects of an 
artificial, and somewhat improvised, system of government 
press more heavily upon some individuals or classes and 
involve much unforeseen injustice. Meanwhile, there is 
an increasing consciousness among the invincible masses 
of untrained men, that with them — as a " despotic democ- 
racy " — especially rests the ultimate power to dictate the 
law, and to prescribe its inexorable formularies. The 
temptation is strong to favor their own peculiar interests 
exclusively, regardless, at least to a great extent, of the 
rights and privileges of others. All of these things tend 
to make the problem — not merely of administering, but 
even of preserving and perpetuating our peculiar republi- 
can form of government — a study for the anxious intel- 
lectual man. It is no easy task for the gifted, learned, 
wise, and patriotic. It demands of those who temporarily 
hold official power a sincere vow — as they are often re- 
minded — both to wield that power with moderation and 
to keep a far look into the future consequences of what- 
ever policy or practical measures they shall sanctify and 
perpetuate by the authority of established law. 

To the contemplation of some of our more prosperous 
citizens, the past appears to be only a history of colossal 
legitimate natural growth ; — the present serene and the 
future full of magnificent promise for the human race. 
This may be true and correct from a single aspect. But 
what shall be the development or vicissitudes of the great 
political and social dynamos — embodying local selfish 
interests and now at work beneath our feet especially in 
our great cities, or in national affairs — no sagacious man 



266 R UMINA TIONS. 

can estimate with clearness of vision or placidity of 
temper : — unless indeed he be either selfishly indifferent 
to the fortunes of his country and his race, or possess an 
unflinching faith in the Utopian doctrine that Providence 
charitably governs the political affairs of mankind, irre- 
spective of their voluntary choice, or of human effort in 
the direction of wise statesmanship. 

American Social Restlessness. 

While there is about us, almost everywhere, a fierce 
desire of the common mass of people to lessen the burden 
of their physical conditions, per fas et nefas — to procure, 
for the least possible labor, the largest compensation at the 
expense of those who happen, for the time being, to be 
possessed of the greater part of the accumulated wealth of 
the world — a state of things, in some of its phases, euphe- 
mistically called " the conflict between labor and capital " 
— there appears also to be a dearth of contentment in the 
social life of a majority of those who, in easy circumstan- 
ces, occupy our large cities. 

Most of these — who can choose their hourly occupa- 
tion, or give themselves up to idleness — appear to find 
their chief satisfaction of living in some novel subject of 
excitement which shall keep them constantly in motion. 
They are usually amid a turmoil or in a whirl. Men who 
are by chance, or successful venture, beyond the stress of 
a daily struggle for more* comfortable subsistence, are 
striving eagerly to reach some fanciful goal, or to accom- 
plish some vain purpose, whose real underlying signifi- 
cance they generally misunderstand — if any substance be 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 267 

involved in it. They find actual pleasure sometimes in 
the mere pursuit of a social phantasm. Their choice of 
it is blind and headlong, while they are apparently quite 
careless of its intrinsic worthlessness. 

Few of them seem to act in such matters from any 
original impulse. Most are either led or driven — many 
willingly, some unconsciously, unaware of what they are 
doing or why they do it. Yet they are uneasy. The 
charming sobriety of intellectual contentment no longer 
seems to be the aim of intelligent men or women among 
them. Their religion or philosophy is relegated to only 
a few hours of a single day of the week, whenever either 
of these have any recognition at all ; — which is not always. 
Political duty is shirked as vulgar, laborious, or vain. 
Pleasure, amusement, especially novelty and exhilaration, 
or the supposed means of obtaining these, seem to be the 
subject of all their daily thoughts. The demon of unrest 
dominates them. Vain-glory, covetousness, envy, jealousy, 
rivalry, detraction, often usurp the place of moral repose 
and domestic virtues of the milder sort ; while class-strife 
and social ambition fill up the measure of activity in the 
lives of many, born capable of, or fortuned for,better things. 

Among some of our rising social classes few, while in 
health, seem to ask themselves concerning any of their 
doings — quo tendit ? They push on resolutely, like a man 
upon a treadmill. They act as if they must give all their 
time and attention to something, which appears to them 
to be moving ahead — but is really revolving in a mere 
circle — with constant effort and endless repetition. 

In this vain pursuit, fired by the intoxicating fumes of 
a fancied social equality, men and women sometimes 



268 R UMINA TIONS. 

thrust themselves amid special surroundings, for which 
they not only have no fitness, but are, both by nature and 
circumstances almost disqualified. They find themselves 
unexpectedly in an atmosphere where they see others 
gliding about with grace and ease, but in which they can 
only flounder by continuing effort. The air is thin and 
their heavy weights overtax its buoyancy. 

Knowing nothing which does not show itself upon the 
surface, they naturally take for granted everything they 
encounter must be what to them it appears to be. With 
these superficial views they are apt to imagine they may 
do what they suppose they see others doing. They are 
prone to believe the actions of those they would imitate 
are artificial and not spontaneous. They do not know 
how much of good social conduct is the prompting of a 
second nature — a matter of heredity and automatic indi- 
vidual impulse, arising out of a perfected system of minor 
morals which has been the growth of ages. What some 
people do, in their intercourse with and bearing towards 
the world, unconsciously and without effort, others strive 
to copy with but a feeble resemblance. Even this poor 
effect is reached by manifest exertion, often attended with 
a painful anxiety lest they shall fail in the attempt and 
their own unreality be discovered. Such a state of mind, 
like a bad conscience, is necessarily full of apprehension, 
doubt, and consequent nervous restlessness. 

When a set of people are seen thus striving to appear 
what they consciously are not — whether it be by a simula- 
tion of education, breeding, social position, or even of 
wealth — any one knowing what vultures are tearing their 
hearts, must pity them. Nothing however is more pleasing 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 269 

to a lover of mankind than to see the easy intercourse of 
well-bred people, assured of their social standing— not 
under-valuing the good opinion of the world, but know- 
ing they deservedly have it, and that it comes unsolicited. 
Lifted above the temptation to make a false pretence of 
what they do not possess, they are not in hourly fear lest 
some borrowed prestige shall vanish, because they may 
choose to be natural, frank, honest, simple, straightfor- 
ward, plain-spoken, or communicative. Their movements 
— airy and long maintained — remind one of the beautiful 
sweep, billowy undulations, and poising on snowy wings, 
of sea-gulls, skimming along an ocean shore ; while 
another class, who would fain imitate them, more resemble 
the forced motions through the air of some awkward 
domestic fowl, overweighted for aerial navigation. 

And yet, although this unhappy class of people try to 
deceive themselves, they delude no one else. It is sus- 
pected, too, that they not uncommonly suffer — as has been 
already suggested— the pangs peculiar to those who are 
both conscious of a fraud, and in fear of its detection. 
Perhaps not all see these things in their naked deformity. 
Many indeed do not care to look so closely. Yet there 
are enough to whom mere masks are not disguises ; and 
who are always willing to keep the social idiot — who, 
shutting his own eyes, feigns to believe his neighbor does 
not see— uneasy and incapable of repose, while constantly 
apprehensive lest he shall be detected in his masquerade 
and exposed to that ridicule he so terribly dreads. 

These allusions, however, touch only a single phase of 
the condition of social disquietude that pervades many 
of our more fortunate circles. Tranquillity has grown 



270 R UMINA TIONS. 

almost obsolete, as a social virtue. There seems to be 
among some of our most prosperous classes an unsatisfied 
desire for something unattainable and indefinable. They 
chase some phantom of delight that eludes pursuit, like a 
will-o'-the-wisp. When riches are secured, and the cov- 
eted joys of idleness are exhausted, the absence of any 
profound or even real purpose or value in life makes it 
grow oppressive. Failing to find continuity in the chain 
of human existence ; looking upon each individual as 
merely a disconnected link, and society as a mass of dis- 
integrated fragments ; they feel with Marcellus : — 

Something is rotten in the State. 

Indeed the very pleasures of an unchecked profusion of 
wealth have severe limitations. Heaping up riches for 
spendthrift heirs, or cormorant will-breakers, grows weari- 
some. When Heliogabalus has had his swim in a pond 
of aromatic wine, and finished his feast garnished with 
the brains of six hundred or more ostriches ; or when 
Caligula has sated his crazy thirst with pearls dissolved 
in vinegar ; what next ? Such pleasures pall. Society 
is bored with its own luxury ; and the outlook is toward 
vacancy. Its more energetic members traverse remote 
seas, chase the sun around the globe, skim over the sur- 
face of other countries old and new, tempt domestic 
disaster by foreign alliances, participate in social phan- 
tasmagoria alien to their own history, association, or 
habits, and fancy they are enjoying life. In fact they are 
only drowning, by incongruous noise, the deep cry in 
their hearts for something earnest and real; — something 
that shall ultimately weld their class into such a sympa- 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 2*]\ 

thetic unity with the race — such a proud nationality of 
feeling and such an unspeakable consciousness of high 
social destiny — as is the natural birthright of the leaders 
of a great people that is opportuned to lead the way for 
the whole world in an experimental civilization. 

Who shall analyze or define this uneasiness, this crav- 
ing hunger, this unsatisfied want, so obvious among the 
body of our wealthy society ? Is there not here a dull, 
but persistent longing for something in the social basis 
that shall smack more of worldly perpetuity ? — some 
greater stake in the family or the State ? It appears to 
be a tedious round of life that so many successive gener- 
ations of men and women should be going continuously 
over the same path — leading nowhere ! Until near our 
own time a social pride in the prosperity, growth, and 
prospective greatness, of our country, has done much to 
satisfy this moral and intellectual craving for some living 
interest in the future of the vast world before us. But 
now the Demos is rapidly learning, through self-organi- 
zation, not only its unlimited power and irresponsibility, 
but also a sagacious method of prostrating political 
parties in abasement at its feet. Large classes, although 
fortunate perhaps through inherited wealth or learned 
education — and not without public spirit or political am- 
bition — are still morally disqualified to 

crook the pregnant hinges of the knee 
Where thrift may follow fawning. 

They are therefore put out of practical control of 
the destinies of the republic. These latter seem to 
find but little spur for their ambition, and less satis- 



272 K UMINA TIONS. 

faction for their pride, in the vague contemplation of 
a future they cannot foresee. They — for the most part 
— lack the martyr-like spirit of self-sacrifice to endeavor 
to direct it. Higher social life seems to have become 
merely a kaleidoscopic changing — a shuffling of the same, 
or like, bits of artificial unmeaning color. It does not 
appear to move forward or upward. Although it has 
its varieties, is it not too commonly harlequin-like or 
grotesque ? 

What is the worth of a society, and what is the signifi- 
cance of its life, if it must be without method, and con- 
tinue without improving growth ? How can there be 
either of these among us, when the family institution — 
the very soul of civilization — instead of crystalizing 
(through recognized heredity, continuous social affinity, 
or perpetuated power or wealth) is constantly under- 
going an alternating process of disintegration and new 
re-formation — without continuity or progressive reform? 
These are hints of some of the quandaries that disturb 
the bosom of our society. How shall we find a clew to 
guide the way through this labyrinthine maze ? 

Right and Wrong. 

When inclined to do what is contrary to the interests, 
opinions, or wishes of our fellow-men, how shall we deter- 
mine, in nice matters, what is right or what is wrong ? 
Apart from Scriptural command or precept— which in so 
many complex cases itself appears vague or equivocal — 
where shall we find a specific, authoritative, infallible, 
guide ? Shall we rely upon our own moral sense or 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 273 

conscience ? This may not be always a safe arbiter for 
all, because so many delude themselves with the notion 
that, in private conduct, each one is, as it were, a special 
and peculiar law unto himself. The uncertainty that we 
encounter in searching for a universal and inflexible law 
inclines the superficial to doubt even the existence of any 
valid rule whatever. 

How far too is conscience itself the creature of educa- 
tion, utility, convenience, custom, or habit — inspired by a 
commonly prevailing opinion of the age and country we 
live in ? How far is it the child of cowardice ; — the off- 
spring of apprehension of punishment, here or hereafter, 
for doing forbidden, or omitting commanded, things ? If 
it were a divine and absolute umpire would it speak to 
man with so uncertain a sound or in so many diverse 
voices throughout different countries or periods of the 
world's history ? How can we rank as infallible such an 
apparent changeling ? If what is commonly reputed right 
alone be right, and what is so reputed wrong be wrong 
intrinsically — and not merely from custom or convenience 
— why does conscience so often seem to interchange them, 
according to the mutations of climate, civilization, histor- 
ical emergency, social policy or popular opinion ? If we 
consult our own sense of justice — to determine for our- 
selves how honeste vivere, alterum non laedere, suum cui- 
que tribuere — are we not still, consciously or not, almost 
wholly dependent upon contemporary public opinion ; 
when estimating in what essentially consists such living 
honorably, harming no other one, and rendering unto 
every other one his due ? So also if we attempt ourselves 

to apply the more subtile golden rule to our own conduct, 
y9 



2 74 * UMINA TIONS. 

where is the guarantee for impartiality ; when suitor, ad- 
vocate, and judge are one and the same person ? 

Is conscience then simply a convenient regulator — 
adopted by common consent, only because supposed to 
be necessary for the well-being of a particular commu- 
nity ? Is it merely an artificial rule of local social conduct ? 
If there were only one human being could he never do 
wrong ? Would there be no moral code ? If none, then 
how can the dictate of conscience be said to exist as 
the original, inborn law — latent or obvious — of an indi- 
vidual ? 

If, however, we dive into the depths of our own purely 
egoistic, inner, moral consciousness ; or even if we give 
ourselves up wholly to the study of what is the chief good 
of man (both individually and socially) and of what 
ought to be done or omitted in order to conform to a code 
springing out of the natural fitness of things — when re- 
regarded only in their essential nature, stripped of all 
factitious circumstances, and independent of the fluctua- 
ting, contrived, opinions of the world around us — 
although we may hope to find a rule that shall never vary, 
but always be consistent with itself, yet in many matters 
of grave moment, we may nevertheless run counter, not 
only to the best judgment of our companions, but even 
to the penal mandate of the law of the land ! 

In order to formulate a definition of right as opposed 
to wrong (broad enough to embrace everything proper to 
be included, according to the popular judgment of some 
of our modern communities) it would seem almost as 
though one must use such latitude, or narrowness of ex- 
pression, as to adopt unqualifiedly whatever is locally or 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES, 275 

temporarily suitable or convenient to present demands — 
whether through usage or expediency — in the opinion of 
those who, for the time being, have the power, legal or 
social, to enforce it ! Such a postulate would be apt to 
stagger any ingenuous, inquisitive mind — if not perma- 
nently to unsettle whatever fixed principles there might 
be in it. 

In fact we are, for the most part, born and bred in 
communities where canons of intrinsic right and wrong 
are confounded too commonly with such rules as are 
made to suit a supposed expediency, by the arbitrary will 
or conventional opinion of those around us. They often 
have also the sanction of an equal weight of a large public 
judgment ; and, from our childhood — when, it is com- 
monly observed, the deepest and most lasting impressions 
are made upon our moral nature — we are not seldom taught 
that the natural and the artificial, in morals, are founded 
upon the same principle, are of equal validity, and have 
the same binding force upon us. Thus tutored, in our 
own individual civilized conscience, we cannot always 
discriminate fairly. To illustrate : — that still small voice 
pipes in the same strain when it checks the arm about to 
be raised against a brother, as when it covers with confu- 
sion a New England boy whose childish glee betrays him 
into whistling on a Sabbath day ! 

What then shall we do to be safe, yet preserve our 
liberty of mind and body ? In the exercise of a right of 
private judgment (in such matters as virtue and vice, 
right and wrong,) if we regard our own comfort, it be- 
hooves us to beware of going contrary to commonly 
received opinion. In all overt acts at the least we must 



276 R UMINA TIONS. 

take cognizance of law, written or unwritten — whether it 
be formulated by expression or merely slumber in the 
conscious bosom of society— lest we be sent to jail or to 
Coventry ; according as we infringe the law of the land, 
or violate the dogmas of social opinion. 

To keep ourselves entirely secure, the rule of prudence 
for an ordinary man, in his conduct through life in most 
communities, would seem to be reduced to the formula 
of doing or omitting what his Bible commands and his 
good sense teaches, to be right or wrong ; — provided, 
however, it be not otherwise ordered or compelled by law 
or opinion ! For while we live in this world, society will 
be always stronger than any one man. And if one shall 
make war upon society — no matter if he be right in the 
absolute or before God — the victory will be always on 
the side of the heavy battalions ; — at the least during his 
lifetime. Future ages may indeed canonize his memory, 
for his noble daring to be free ; but himself, neverthe- 
less, will perish ignominiously. Society must have peace 
— even at the cost of human sacrifices ! A windmill may 
look to a man like an absurd adversary ; but despite its 
awkwardness, its long arms will smite, with powerful 
blows, him who shall oppose it. 

Nevertheless, even if we were compelled to concede 
conscience — as too commonly understood — to be a mere 
thing of custom and of artificial mould, yet there must be, 
behind it, or at its very foundation, some divine instinct 
in our human nature — higher and broader than the notion 
of convenience — that always has prompted mankind to 
set up some ideal standard of right and wrong. Through 
this, in the long progress of time, the way ultimately must 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 277 

be cleared to a positive, infallible rule of pure justice and 
rectitude. For instance : can any man — unless he be 
abnormally base by nature, or artificially self-brutified — 
injure voluntarily another's right without feeling a lump 
in his throat, or a qualm of moral dyspepsia? From 
whatever origin it may spring, or whatsoever may be its 
composition — whether or not it be " the oracle of God " 
— shall not every true man say : — " Thank Heaven, I have 
a conscience ? Pity for the man who believes he is 
without one ! " 

Domestic Peace. 

It is pleasant, for even a cynic, to look upon the 
members of a harmonious family circle. Without facti- 
tious aid, they appear to be able to make their own 
happiness. It seems to pervade their atmosphere ; — 
spreading far and widely, like some sweet and powerful 
perfume. The social influence of such a group con- 
tinually broadens, carrying its amiable attributes with it. 
However small or feeble the beginning, if it have noble- 
ness and refinement at its centre, it surely will become 
great and strong in the affection and esteem of a world of 
neighbors and acquaintances. All of this is easily prac- 
ticable, without either the possession of wealth, or power 
— or even the luck of good fortune. 

Yet, in these days of social ambition, anarchical social 
strife, and intense intellectual activity, the majority of 
mankind are engaged busily in ways that tend to make 
such felicity quite exceptional. Husband and wife, father 
and son, brother and sister — not content to dwell happily 



278 It UMINA TIONS. 

together — seek different and incongruous ideals. With 
contrary aims, and respecting no past, they are incapable 
of forecasting their future. With hearts perhaps too 
shallow for reverence to take root in them, they wander 
or rush in opposite directions. Each expends his or her 
surplus energy upon what is often a mere chimera of the 
hour ; — when by co-operation they might attain substantial 
results, and, perhaps, unconsciously, obtain possession of 
the very object of their now futile pursuit. On the con- 
trary, following the dictates of self-conceit and perverse 
self-will — reckless of the happiness of others — they not 
uncommonly push headlong upon experimental courses, 
too often only to work out the punishment of their folly. 
One of the surest foundations for the permanence of 
family harmony and cordial co-operation is a mutual 
respect for each individual's personality, and an absence 
of, or an unbroken restraint upon, all desire to invade, or 
ever to spy out the innermost self-hood of each other. 
For no human intercourse can long endure, with mutual 
esteem and respect, unless there be some reserve on both 
sides. We should never be able to take for granted that 
we wholly know, and are in the fullest possible confidence 
of, another. We must always withhold something, on 
each side, in order to keep our special individuality 
sacred and inviolable. The homely adage that " too 
much familiarity breeds contempt" — although probably 
pointed at the relation between unequals — contains the 
seed-bud of these suggestions. Generally, even among 
equals, it may be said, when we give up ourselves to each 
other quite unreservedly, satiety, at the least, is not far 
away. 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 2jq 

Nevertheless, in an intimate intercourse, we ought 
always to feel that we are progressing ; that, although 
we do not know all, we are constantly learning more and 
more of something inexhaustible. It is well to believe 
that, even if we shall never reach the end, we are not 
standing still. As soon as progress ends retreat is likely 
to begin ; while indifference or worse — nay, even separa- 
tion, secret or avowed, is not long in following. Perhaps, 
like asymptotes, we should be continually approaching 
nearer to each other, but — though the lines of our spiritual 
intercourse be continued indefinitely — never absolutely 
meet, or become co-incident, so as to merge in literal 
unity. 

Few mortals — especially if they be of highly sensitive 
organization — can long dwell together in harmony, unless 
they thoroughly understand each other's general character, 
natural or acquired. They must exercise habitually 
toward each other not only some reserve, but also very 
great — nay, in some cases, almost superhuman — forbear- 
ance. Many fail from expecting too much ; some from 
even exacting too much ; more, however, from yielding 
or forbearing too little. 

In the marital relation such failures are lamentably 
conspicuous. Although it is proverbially impracticable 
to ascertain with certainty the real direct cause, in most 
cases, of such domestic infelicity — inasmuch as both 
parties are bound naturally to secresy — yet the general 
verdict is that there are usually abundant faults on both 
sides. However impartial one may feel disposed to be 
in such matters, the solution of the problem is necessarily 
difficult by reason of the confused and imperfect data 



2 80 R UMINA TIO ATS. 

commonly furnished. Doubtless, however, a fine analysis 
would disclose the fact that, in ordinary cases, this social 
misery arises, not so much from wilful misconduct of 
either party (too commonly suspected) as, from some 
innate incompatibility of temperament, loosened from 
judicious self-restraint. 

On the other hand, it seems strange to the mere looker- 
on, that such very antagonistic characters, as we sometimes 
see quite happy in their conjugal state, should have been 
ever put in so close relationship. Indeed, it is not un- 
common for husband and wife, of amiable and matter-of- 
fact natures, to be so blind to their latent incongruousness, 
as, in their loving intercourse, even to prefigure to them- 
selves a supreme bliss they shall realize, as disembodied 
spirits, in a future state ; when, alas ! in truth, if they 
really could see each other, in pure essence with all 
delusive alloy of mortal life purged away, probably they 
would shrink from each other with mutual aversion ; 
— if they did not fly instantly apart with reciprocal 
repulsion ! 

Education. 

As has been said often, and seldom heeded, a prelimin- 
ary step to the practical education of any man — whether 
for general usefulness or to do anything in particular — 
ought to be to find out his tendencies and capabilities, 
his inaptitudes and impediments, in the matter of the ac- 
quirement of any branch of knowledge, or in the practi- 
cal use of it. 

It would be hard to overestimate how much is em- 
braced in that thread-bare word — education. To bring 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 28 1 

up. Few men, women or children, for either themselves 
or others, comprehend it. Fewer still fully achieve it. 
It involves the entire make-up and career of life, almost 
from the cradle ; first, the specific nature of any par- 
ticular man, then the life-ends to be aimed at by him, 
and last the means of his attaining them. A man's whole 
complex nature must be fairly contemplated — intellectual, 
moral, and physical. The purely spiritual we now leave 
out of view. 

The essence of education is confessedly artificial train- 
ing. Learning and wisdom come later. The object to 
be kept in view should be, by giving each part of this 
triple nature of man its due share of discipline in due 
order— to fit the whole character for the business of 
working out its potential destiny. 

To cultivate, develop, and exercise in true proportion 
each of these three parts of man's composition, yet to 
neglect neither ; to make their growth harmonize, and to 
let them so work together as to carry out the purposes of 
an intelligent, methodical, far-seeing, consistent will ; and 
thereby to accomplish its purpose, so far as is permitted 
to such capacity as one has ; this would be indeed to 
educate a man. 

How shall this be done ? The chief means of real 
education are three : 1st, instruction through another ; 
2d, thought and reflection, or education of one's self ; 
3d, the lessons of personal experience in practical affairs. 
Obviously they must be used and applied in different 
proportions at different times of life. In early youth the 
degree of instruction should be greatest ; next, self-edu- 
cation, or discipline, and last, practical experience. In 



282 A UMINA T10NS. 

second youth — perhaps from the age of twenty to thirty 
or somewhat later — a man acquires less wisdom from the 
instruction of actual methodical teachers, and more from 
the conversation of men, or the writing of profound and 
learned masters ; but now he derives the most solid part 
of his intellectual accretion, or growth, from a process of 
self-education, by means of his thoughts and reflections 
based upon the gathered resources of his mind, drawn 
from without as well as within. For at this period he 
begins to acquire wisdom from his own observation of 
external facts, and from his own experience in his deal- 
ings with his fellow-men — both individually and as rep- 
resenting the society of which he is gradually becoming 
a substantial part. 

After thirty or perhaps forty — until advanced beyond 
middle life — he gains less either by the teachings of 
others, or from the process of mere self-education. Now 
he derives much more wisdom from his practical dealings 
with human affairs and the deductions of his judgment 
from the knowledge thus acquired. This puts to the test 
all his acquirements from every source. 

Now if ever he lays aside his false doctrines, his tradi- 
tions, his arbitrary dogmas, his delusions, his impractical 
theories, his imperfect judgments, that have been biased 
by social surroundings, or by his own temperament, pas- 
sions, prejudice, or favor. If he has true intellectual 
growth, he now rises into a clearer atmosphere. He rea- 
sons more fairly ; he escapes more illusion, as imagina- 
tion and fancy are held in check. He learns the sublime 
peace that hovers over intellectual patience. Hasty con- 
clusions from imperfect or inadequate data or premises 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 283 

are no longer swift to dazzle, mislead, or betray him into 
folly. He learns to know his comparative weakness or 
strength as he measures himself intellectually with other 
men, past or contemporary. 

He comprehends the elements of human power, indi- 
vidual, social, or political. He gives due weight to moral 
considerations. He understands men. His practical 
calculations do not longer miscarry, from reckoning men 
as mere mechanical figures or scientific machines. He 
appreciates what is meant by weight of character. He 
perceives that sentiment, thought, and opinion are influ- 
ential in the world in proportion as they are backed by a 
man who is recognized as faithful, true, consistent, 
independent, liberal and unselfish. But he no longer 
looks for the triumph of abstract truth, unaided by 
persistent, hard, earnest work to illustrate its practical 
utility. Indeed he now may become a real live working 
factor in the composition of the society that surrounds 
him, and the State that upholds his civil or political rights 
and measures his obligations to the world, of which he is 
a part. 

Monasteries. 

Can Christianity be held responsible for the theory of 
conduct of the unfortunates who resort to these religious 
houses as hiding-places, in order to skulk from or shirk 
the duties and burdens of practical life ? The Saviour 
taught especially severe lessons of what in our day is 
called altruism ; but these institutions sometimes, for 
some inmates, have been made the hotbeds of a stagnant 
egoism. The virile tonic and practical piety contained 



2 84 R UMINA TIONS. 

in Longfellow's Psalm of Life (however unsatisfactory) 
are far more wholesome aliment for a living soul than the 
sweet opiates of Thomas a Kempis — or Chancellor Gerson. 

Pushed to extremes, some of the doctrines of Chris- 
tianity — when considered separately — might seem to 
lead on the one hand to a real sacrifice of one's self to the 
uttermost, as well as all of one's worldly possessions, for 
the good of one's neighbor. On the other hand, by mini- 
mizing the business of this world to an almost insignificant 
item, they apparently suggest, to some minds, the notion 
of giving up all of our care and all of our thoughts while 
here, to the affairs of ourselves in a world to come. Both 
versions would be too extravagant in practice. The latter 
apparently is a desertion of the post of immediate duty. 
The first would involve a needless, and perhaps mischie- 
vous martyrdom, detrimental to, if not destructive of, the 
true interest of all concerned in the functions of our 
mortal lives ; including even the demoralized recipients of 
such misplaced bounty. 

The monastery appears to have been used by some as 
a sort of hospital for diseased souls. Many such invalid 
spirits were, by their possessors, perhaps too rashly, deemed 
incurable, through ordinary methods — such as the health- 
breeding exercise of social usages, and an orderly dis- 
charge of the common functions of civilized life. When 
thus resorted to by men in bodily health the cloister 
becomes, in effect, a living mausoleum for the bodies of 
moral suicides. 

It is proposed to speak of these institutions now, only 
in their character of asylums for disappointed lives ; — we 
omit here all other views of their establishment (whether, 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 285 

from obvious or recondite motives of policy or piety on 
the part of the Roman Church, made seminaries of learn- 
ing or auxiliaries of religion, and charity toward the sick 
and the poor) as well as all observation upon any grosser 
abuses alleged to have been made sometimes of them by 
corrupt inmates. 

The relief suggested, nay even prescribed, by nature, 
for embarrassing misfortune — exaggerated passion, mor- 
bid self-mismanagement, or even undeserved obloquy and 
similar human calamity — lies immeasurably in one word 
— action. A man so afflicted may far better say to him- 
self in the forcible, though unpoetical, language of Ten- 
nyson, speaking for one inclining to despondency : — 

I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

When life seems least attractive to us, is it not then, 
more than ever — for the sake of example, for the sake of 
the divine spark within us, for the sake of an honest per- 
formance of the obligations we religiously owe to ourselves 
as well as to all men, or at least to the race, and indeed 
toward countless exacting circumstances around us — is it 
not our natural duty, even at some risk, to live actively ? 
That indeed is the very precept of Christianity ; — as is 
well illustrated by the essence of the severe parable of the 
slothful and unprofitable slave. 

It has been common to defend the too ascetic use made 
of these pious communities — for the purpose referred to 
— upon the sentimental side of the matter. Men talk as 
though there were some special merit in abandoning the 
innocent pleasures, of this world, and in taking on a sap- 



286 Jt UMINA TIONS. 

less life oi* abnegation of all worldly happiness. But 
those very persons — for whom our sympathies are invoked 
by such a view — are usually led in this direction by mere 
pusillanimity, in thus running away from the battle of 
life. Not unfrequently too they are so moved merely by 
an exaggerated self-pity, or a yearning for the pity of 
others. They sometimes madly propose to find a cure 
for erroneous inclination — or involuntary brooding over 
unmerited affliction, or morbid moral growth and abnor- 
mal evil-development — by nourishing some other perhaps 
more vicious tendency, or by feeding a smouldering flame 
with slow combustibles. At the best they often seek to 
escape the natural penalties of a misguided life, and to 
find absolution, for voluntary error, through inanition. 

As a recognized sanctuary and asylum, or place of 
refuge for those guilty of crime against civil or social 
law, where such persons were exempt outlaws of society 
— inasmuch as suicide was believed to be impious and 
wholly forbidden — perhaps, (as voluntary jails,) they 
may have had their uses and excuses for some such 
inmates. But why should merely timid, or despondent, 
souls seek to propitiate in this manner a Creator supposed 
to be personally offended ? Why desert the plain 
demands of society, as well as of their nature, to dream 
away, in effeminate vacuity, the duration of a life given 
for human reciprocity of active, well-doing, and conse- 
quent enjoyment of the real pleasures of human exist- 
ence ? — Is the God of Christianity a reflex of humanity, 
in so bad a phase, as to look with favor upon slothful 
adulation from men playing the role of cowards, or 
yielding to an unmanly despair ? 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 287 

Religion, as the Basis of Society. 

Based, as our civil and political condition now univer- 
sally is, upon the fixed belief in a personal God and our 
own soul's future existence — with all the Christian con- 
sequences of their relationship — it would be difficult for 
us even to conceive what our social life might be, without 
these fundamental ideas and their essential dogmas. 

Faith in a system of future rewards or punishments for 
well or ill doing here — which shall hereafter supply the 
deficiencies of this mortal state in such matters — is so 
deeply imbedded in the convictions of the common mind, 
that ordinary men, now, act and suffer with a degree of 
fortitude, patience, and elasticity we can hardly imagine 
them capable of, without such a conviction. 

Would an instinctive love of virtue, a natural sense of 
justice, the restraints of civil or social law, and the love 
of the good opinion of their fellow-men, long withhold 
mankind from lapsing into a condition of moral, and per- 
haps physical savagery, if it were commonly understood 
that this life is all we shall have, anywhere, of a conscious 
existence ? 

At this period of the world's social development only 
a learned and thoughtful few, of those living among us, 
appear to have such unqualified confidence in the com- 
pleteness of the laws of nature — supplemented by those 
of man — as to believe that, in all cases of wrong-doing, 
we shall have due punishment here, in ourselves, or at 
least in our posterity. What shall we say, however, of 
the apparent lack of compensation anywhere, for those 
wretched victims of involuntary suffering, whose calam- 



288 R UMINA TIONS. 

ities befall them, without their fault, and oftentimes while 
in the discharge of sacred or self-denying duty ? More- 
over, with the general body of mankind, the expectation 
of avoiding detection of evil conduct, while this life en- 
dures, would be, apparently, equivalent to an avoidance 
of all punishment whatever, unless it shall be inflicted at 
some time hereafter, when all shall be known and escape 
be impossible. 

Besides how many crimes against the well-being of 
society are recognized to be beyond the reach of human 
law, even when they are discovered. Nay, how many 
grievous sins are more than tolerated by social opinion. 
What attitude would a merely moral system, with no 
sanction beyond the grave, hold toward such offences, in 
the eyes of those who might fear neither the vengeance 
of nature, or any Nemesis whatever in this earthly life ? 

Inasmuch however as our entire social fabric, from 
time immemorial, has been founded upon the notion of a 
Divine personal supervision of individual human conduct 
perhaps it would be a blind, or at least rash, estimate of 
the untried capabilities of human nature, for us to say 
ex cathedra, that humanity can never attain to such a 
recognition of the eternal fitness of natural justice, as to 
be entrusted with an emancipation from reliance upon a 
hope of future reward, and from restraint by a fear of 
future punishment — without irreparable detriment to 
general social well-being. 

Naturally men believe that state of things which they 
assume has always existed must be necessary. Conse- 
quently most people, among us, are of opinion that a 
disbelief in our future existence would necessarily 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 289 

involve the rushing into a ruinous indulgence in every 
excess or vice of which unrestrained man is capable. 
Undoubtedly this would be largely the first result of 
sudden total infidelity of a whole people, who had been 
habituated to the threats and promises of our Divine 
religion. For, as Erdmann, in his History of Philosophy, 
well says : — " The breaking of the chains of slavery is 
not by itself enough to confer freedom. " 

Yet there have been in the past, and now are, numer- 
ous individual men, just and honest, by a law of their 
own nature. They find more happiness in virtue than in 
vice — in moderation than in excess — and are so unhappily 
constituted, that, for themselves, a belief in supernatural 
religion seems to be impossible. It cannot be certain 
that in the lapse of future ages their numbers may not 
be greatly multiplied. Perhaps, too, it would not detract 
from the sublimity, or grace, of our own Gospel Revela- 
tion, if we might be permitted to hope that, at the least, in 
some remote day, its threats and promises would cease 
to be regarded, by so many, as necessary chiefly in order 
to prevent the wickedness of the great mass of men, 
toward either themselves or each other. 

Teaching Backward. 

One of the many bad consequences of the incalculably 
useful invention of the art of printing — and the conse- 
quently inevitable multiplication of mere books to sup- 
ply the demands of universal ^#,$7- education is that — 
by reason of excessive, injudicious, desultory reading of 
literature in youth — we are taught words, opinions, or 

*9 



29O R UMINA TIONS. 

thoughts, before we learn things, facts, or events. Books 
of " elegant extracts," " wit and wisdom, " or " beauties," 
debauch the minds of many misguided readers. By this 
reversed process of self-instruction — or rather misin- 
struction — ideas are often wrenched from their natural 
belongings. They are set afloat through the memory 
and mind, dislocated and disassociated from their con- 
text, as well as from the tangible realities out of which 
they grow, and of which they are designed to be only 
the immediate interpretation. Their actual significance 
being thus sometimes quite distorted, a fruitful result of 
mental misleading — frequently of life-long endurance — 
necessarily follows. 

Perhaps, from this prolific source, too, springs the de- 
plorable fact that so large a portion of modern belles- 
lettres productions — catering to a popular appetite for 
sciolism in letters — consists of books drawn from books ; 
— instead of being deduced from Nature herself, or real 
observation or experience in human affairs, with genuine 
opinion or idealization from fresh verity. For some- 
times threadbare rhetoric, artificial imagery, or criticism 
of criticism usurp the function of scientific information, 
knowledge of mankind, and human affairs, or fine ob- 
servation of the actual forms and processes of nature. 
In short the fruit appears to anticipate the maturity of 
the flower ; — resulting in blight or deformity. Hence are 
so many authors, and so few classics — or books bring- 
ing permanent addition to the stock of good literature. 

The true method, either of imparting or acquiring in- 
formation and knowledge, in science, literature, or art 
(outside of the realm of mere imagination and fancy) 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 29I 

— particularly with the young pupil, as every one ought 
to remember — is, to set real things before the growing 
mind. This should be done either by objects, or state- 
ments of fact about objects, or events, or characters, 
and by teaching it to think about them as actualities ; — 
substantially what is now called " object-teaching." 
When one, thus instructed, wishes to formulate and ex- 
press his own ideas — self-formed upon any subject — or 
to deduce a derived knowledge through comparison of 
the ingredients of his real information, he may then be- 
gin to read arguments and opinions about the matter 
to be so considered. 

This latter procedure ought to be quite a secondary 
process. In this manner one may be taught to value 
opinion when read only in proportion as it is true, verifi- 
able, and clearly expressed. Also the mind will, by this 
means, escape being the slave of popular authority, or 
inclined to value words more than things, or names of 
authors more than their works. For one of the master- 
ing literary sins of our day is a tendency to talk in print 
about what one knows nothing, except what has been 
picked up, as it were by chance, in writings of the 
thoughts, opinions, or mere random speech, of others. 

This species of intellectual vice comes largely of indo- 
lence and conceit, either in teacher, or pupil, or both, 
and is prone to discourage real learning and well- 
grounded self-reliance. Object-teaching — as opposed to 
parrot teaching — always should be the first step in early 
and even late education. Human nature, society, and 
history, rather than criticisms and book-reviews, should 
be the. food of the hungry literary aspirant. It is well to 



292 JR UMINA TIONS. 

let one get fully possessed of facts— either from general 
reliable sources of knowledge or from personal observa- 
tion — before he attempts to deduce or express ideas ; 
otherwise they will necessarily be purely second-handed 
and probably inconsistent. 

Indeed, books about other books, and books of criti- 
cism concerning writings not well-mastered or not read 
at all — or books of mere literary or ethical opinion- 
should be almost prohibited to the young student. In 
short, this wretched process of word-teaching, that un- 
duly exalts mere books — more especially in the domain 
of pure literature — overcharges the memory with words 
without specific or accurate meaning, tends to emascu- 
late the brain, to take away its independence or elasticity, 
and to stunt its growth. At the same time, it works 
toward a condition of mental somnolence, if not of 
atrophy itself. Most truly, as was wisely said, of bare 
book-mongering, long ago : — 

Small have continual plodders ever won, 
Save base authority from other's books. 

Point of View. 

Must we agree with Marcus Aurelius that everything 
is dependent upon " opinion "; — that, not what is, but what 
commonly seems to be, controls the world ? It is hard 
to govern our conduct by the mere experience of others, 
however many, when that conflicts with our own judg- 
ment, will, or inclination. We always incline to suspect 
the cases are not parallel, and that ours is somehow 
peculiar. We wish to try the question anew, and make 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 293 

up a judgment for ourselves — blindly overlooking the 
risk of partiality to our own inclination impairing our 
decision. 

The world has little respect for pragmatical individual 
opinion — but a profound regard for its own. " No man 
is as wise as all men," is an accepted apothegm, the 
adoption of which at least perhaps correctly is attributed 
to the sagacity of Talleyrand. Vox populi^ vox dei is 
an adage of unknown age, or origin, but very widely 
popular. 

Wherein then lies the secret of that prodigy, called 
Public Opinion — which seems to be the autocrat of the 
nineteenth century ? How does it happen that the voice 
of many ordinary men should so often appear to evince 
a greater sagacity, in practical affairs, than that of any 
one wise man ? How does the whole become better 
than any of its parts ? Does it not come — if it come at 
all — from a multiplication of observations from many 
different points of view ? When we look upon events, 
the mind's eye of an individual is ordinarily confined to 
a single point of observation. In rare cases perhaps he 
may have capacity, learning, experience, imagination, 
acquired or natural insight, to enable him to look from 
outside of himself, and, as it were, to divine what may 
be seen from some other point of view than his own. 

However even all of this kind of adventitious help is 
often liable by prejudice or interest, to many chances of 
error or misconception. But when, with due humility, 
we candidly and without prejudgment, take counsel of 
others — be they wise or not — we can get at least the 
benefit of their several special stand-points in looking at 



294 # UMINA TIONS. 

a matter. We now also change the perspective. We 
can discern — differently from what was before apparent 
to our limited observation — the juxtaposition and rela- 
tion of things to each other. Besides we can see thus 
many things otherwise obscured as it were by shadows, 
or actually hidden by intervening objects, before. We 
should not necessarily adopt their judgment as sound — 
else we might merely exchange one uncertain element 
in a problem for another, where both may be fallacious. 
But even if our own opinion be, most likely, substan- 
tially correct, or most surely the better one, we may still 
use the calculation of another to test the accuracy of, or 
perhaps to correct some subordinate deflection from the 
true line in our own. 

In current practical matters — public, ethical, or social 
— each man ordinarily looks from his special point of 
vision and sees, usually, only a single side of anything ; 
a consideration of vast moment sometimes, when can- 
vassing his individual opinions. Many men, however, 
may see separately many sides of the same object, 
matter, or event ; — if, as generally happens, it have many 
sides. By degrees, when these views are all gradually 
brought together, by comparison, into some kind of 
harmony, they make a public opinion. Usually, for im- 
mediate purposes, it is therefore wiser than the individ- 
ual, unaided, opinion of almost any one separate man. 

True each man's judgment is likely to be colored and 
disturbed by his individual interests, passions, or other 
peculiarities— or to be limited or distorted by imperfect 
vision or opportunity. Yet when the opinions of a great 
number are brought together, (although of comparatively 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 295 

little value when taken separately) immaterial elements 
seem naturally to drop out, or neutralize each other, and 
the residuum is probably in most cases a more just 
estimate of any matter under consideration, than could 
be obtained ordinarily by a single person. Inconvenient 
therefore as it may be, to tyrants and self-willed people 
(generally speaking, at least) the old truth remains that, 
" in the multitude of counsellors there is safety," for the 
management of many practical affairs, of public as well 
as of private concern. 

The colossal strides, of late years, made by modern 
science, in pursuit of truth, by the study of comparative 
religions, jurisprudence, politics, philosophy, morality, 
and sociology, furnish a further illustration of the hints 
shadowed forth in these suggestions. 

Social Appearances. . 

Happy the man who is so constituted by nature, so 
disciplined by habit, or so surrounded by association, 
that in social matters he is never over-tempted to do ob- 
viously, or to say aloud, anything uncommon ! Formal 
society keeps a species of secret police, constantly 
watching the doings of its own members, and appears 
determined, by severe intimidation (or, if necessary, by 
extreme punishment) to keep them all in apparent 
uniformity. 

Social despotism, however, does not usually pretend 
to look very deeply into motives, or even closely to scruti- 
nize all actual conduct. But it is apt to be merciless in 
its judgment upon what it sees fit to regard as equivocal, 



296 R UMINA TIONS. 

or worse, in appearances. The outside cf the platter, 
at least, must be kept clean at all hazards. Social laws 
are sometimes unhappily so obscure in their terms, or 
hung at such a Draconian height, that it is not easy to 
read them, or if read to understand their precise mean- 
ing. Yet all are supposed to know them, and mere 
ignorance of even their most arbitrary formulas seldom 
excuses any one. 

It is frequently safe, in some circles, to be pretty bad 
in fact — or at least suspected of being so — if outward 
conformity to social exactions be complete. But it is 
very dangerous to appear in anywise irregular, however 
good the motive, or unexceptionable, or even excellent, 
the real conduct. Although it may be conceded the en- 
forcement of the extreme penalties of the social code is 
not alway impartial, in respect to persons. 

There is one curious anomaly of unwritten social law 
in general, deserving of mention in this connection. The 
higher the caste of society, the less scrupulously it seems 
to take cognizance of mere facts in social conduct, and 
the more weight it seems to attach to any appearance of 
evil. Yet as we descend in the social scale a different 
rule will be found to prevail. Here even equivocal ap- 
pearances are either wholly overlooked, or supposed to 
be innocent ; while known facts (however secluded from 
the general, public eye) will burn into the social memory, 
beyond any chance of effacement even by the charitable 
sponge of time. 

The popular rules of social right or wrong are nowa- 
days rigid ; — but few exceptions being admitted. Such 
rules are sometimes unreasonable, ethically obscure, and 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 297 

even contradictory or at least inconsistent, as well as 
fruitfully minute in their several provisions touching 
common social intercourse ; — judging chiefly however, 
as has been said, by outward appearances. Yet usually 
they are construed so as often to leave individual mis- 
conduct, when unobtrusive, severely alone. At the 
same time society holds all of its members to a strict ob- 
servance of its rites, form, or ceremonies. It looks upon 
a disregard of any of its common tenets as an insidi- 
ous assault upon its very power and prestige. Indeed, it 
cares little or nothing for any mere person, but every- 
thing for itself. 

Unlike our municipal law, the social code has no mer- 
ciful maxims — not even in favor em vitce. Nor does it 
often presume innocence, and wait until guilt shall be 
established. On the contrary it usually assumes the 
guilt, upon accusation, and condemns in advance. It 
distrusts personal asseveration or even direct proof of 
innocence — where appearances are of bad or doubtful 
import. Indeed, its highest test of verity is one-sided 
or circumstantial evidence, wherever the theory of guilt 
will plausibly explain appearances. Whenever it be- 
comes important to preconsider how one's social con- 
duct will look in the eyes of the world — something of 
course not worth considering where a principle or a duty 
is at stake — it is well for him, who would escape 
calumny, to bear in mind that society will surely put the 
worst probable constructions upon whatever he may do ; 
— if it be in any respect susceptible of a double signifi- 
cance. Hence too has grown up a habit, among some 
frank and honest but politic people, never to do a thing, 



298 R UMINA TIONS. 

or even make an observation, liable to misconstruction 
— unless in obedience to an imperative dictate of either 
a practical necessity or of some grand purpose. 

Obligation to Posterity. 

The careless light-heartedness of happy human nature 
— however fortunate for us in other respects — tends to 
make us unconscious of the obligation we are under to 
the myriads of human beings who have toiled or suffered 
heretofore in order to bring into the common stock of 
civilization, the precious comforts and amenities we 
enjoy, without price and as freely as the air, of land and 
sea, we breath. Yet a moment's reflection will stagger 
the narrowest or dullest understanding, when it contem- 
plates a contrast of the present condition of things with 
our possible situation, if we were the mere beginners of 
our race ! What can be more unanswerable to the liberal 
mind, than the statement that we ought in some way to 
recognize, and to be willing in some measure to repay, 
somehow, the debt we owe to those who have contributed 
so much to our present happiness ? 

The question is : How can we do it ? Our benefac- 
tors are gone — where nothing can touch them further. 
Yet obviously one generation is but a link in the endless 
chain of human life. Although we borrow of the past, 
surely we may repay to the future. The world's knowledge 
and wisdom were not amassed in a day. What we have 
of them has been a slow accretion of " the long result of 
time " — line upon line, precept upon precept, here a 
little, and there a little, No two men are alike in all 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 299 

things — not even in essentials. Every man has his 
peculiarities of mental, moral, and physical structure, 
surrounding, and opportunity. So each man may add 
something to the wisdom, or comfort, or convenience, or 
practical charm of human life in general — be it ever so 
little — according to his special measure of inward and 
outward gift or experience ; — in a narrow or a wide 
circle. For this contribution, however humble, human- 
ity, in some corner of this great globe, may yet be reason- 
ably thankful that he has lived. 

There is nothing burdensome in this suggestion. For 
when a man sincerely feels he has a duty to others to be 
performed, so long as this sense masters him he is lifted 
above sordidness, or mere self-gratification. The very 
exercise of his faculties in this direction acquires and 
begets, or at least cultivates, in him a spiritual impulse, 
that elevates his whole character to a nobler standard. 
Should we not teach then more assiduously our children 
always so to aim, by their lives and actions, that each 
shall strive to contribute to posterity something of value 
for the race ; — something which at the least shall tend in 
some measure toward payment of the natural debt he 
owes to his general ancestry ? 

Reformers. 

There are always at least two leading but widely different 
classes of reformers — each class being perhaps equally 
well-meaning, though varying in value, in respect to 
its way and place — but often mistakenly confounded. 
First there is the gradual reformer, who is thoughtful, 



300 R UMINA TIONS. 

methodical, earnest, benevolent, and a sincere lover of 
mankind. He observes that all the improving processes 
of law or nature, political and social as well as physical, 
by which anything great or permanent is achieved, are 
slow. They come by gradual accretion or reduction, 
each step preparing the way for the next. The thing 
accomplished is a coherent, consistent, homogeneous 
growth, that preserves the good, while discarding the 
evil, in whatever it displaces or modifies. 

Then, there is the immediate reformer, who cannot 
wait. He has no faith in Time. He is an enthusiast by 
nature. Observation is no part of his methods, and the 
fruits of experience are wasted upon him. He may be 
a zealous lover of his race — often, however, in a rather 
general and abstract way — but he has no toleration for 
its weaknesses or errors. He is born an idealist, and is 
a theorist by cultivation. He does not reckon as factors 
in his problem men as they are, but, as it is supposed by 
him man might or ought to be. He takes no note of 
" human weakness or political necessity." He wishes to 
root up the old and plant the new — with little regard 
to climate or season and without any preparation of the 
soil. 

The gradual reformer begins his change by introduc- 
ing what is called for by general assent — does what is 
permitted, contemplates nothing violent — is content first 
to enlighten public opinion and then to progress only as 
keeping pace with, or a very little in advance of, it,; — 
leading in fact, but seeming to follow. Of him it might 
always be said ; — Specie obsequii quieta cum industria 
regebat, 



SOCIAL BINTS AND STUDIES. 30I 

The immediate reformer, on the contrary, being an 
idealist in pursuit of perfection only, forgetful of mun- 
dane conditions, seeks to revolutionize human conduct 
by a tour de force. The result often is that he destroys 
all the good elements of an old system, and, in advance 
of events or opinion, aims to substitute something new 
for which no one is ready. This soon works its own 
destruction ; — involving all the evils of passionate and 
blind reaction. Ultimately too, when he has prevailed, 
it sometimes happens that, from sheer necessity, as a 
working factor in affairs, the old is rehabilitated. The 
reform contemplated, however meritorious, is put back 
for a generation or more, by his intemperate haste. For, 
although occasionally some reformations are best accom- 
plished from cutting up abuses or obsolete impediments 
by the roots, yet, as every statesman knows, most good 
and permanent work of this kind creeps along by 
almost imperceptible degrees ; — and not without some 
retrogression. 

Human Perfectibility. 

Is there satisfactory proof that civil society, as a mass, 
is making permanent progress toward a lasting posses- 
sion of that coveted ideal perfection which so long has 
been the dream of religious, political, or social enthusi- 
asts ; and which still seems relatively possible, if not 
practicable, in the case of an individual ? History fails 
to demonstrate that any whole people can be elevated to 
a positive approximation toward perfection in virtue and 
intelligence. If so elevated, could it be maintained at 



302 R UM1NA T10NS. 

such a high level, for the period of time necessary to 
preserve society permanently pure and sweet ? 

Ancient annals appear to teach that, under the most 
favorable circumstances, long before the great mass of a 
community has attained the lofty ideal suggested by its 
early promise, first a few, then many, and finally the 
greater number, begin to deteriorate, and gradually to 
decline, until they reach, if not degradation, at least a 
low state of polity, manners, and morals not unlike it. 

Nature almost seems to abhor a perpetuity in the best 
political or social results of human endeavor. The story 
of the Tower of Babel is typical of the fortune awaiting 
exaggerated human aspirations. A man, by self-discip- 
line, and by his virtuous actions, may individually attain 
such a pitch of excellence, as to leave but little further 
to be desired in his career ; — except its continuance. 
Nature, however, shuts the door. His life is limited 
here. But that large organization of combined individ- 
uals, we call civil society, although self-perpetuating — 
possibly everlasting and therefore seemingly capable of 
indefinite progress in the right direction — no sooner 
attains some considerable degree of worthiness, than it 
appears to begin to retrograde and finally to decay. 

Past civilizations have been as hopeful as ours of better 
things. Yet their pathways are strewn with wrecks of 
aspirations and enthusiasms as lofty and ardent as our 
own. History, as it were to moderate our conceit, lifts 
its warning finger and points to their common super- 
scription : — Hie jacet. Still we are unwilling to believe 
that man does not, to some extent, progress, however 
irregularly — never losing quite all that is gained — toward 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 3O3 

extreme public virtue and social excellence. If it be an 
illusion, yet such a faith seems to be an essential element 
of refined human association — that it shall expect to 
grow wiser, nobler, better, and in all things happier, as 
time wears away. 

Perhaps, however, if perfection were indeed accom- 
plished — and humanity had nothing better to hope for 
beyond what were permanently achieved, while here — 
poor human nature could not long endure the dead-level 
of such virtuous happiness. Unless we were radically 
changed, perhaps there would be some sighs among us 
for at least a spice of wickedness, merely to break up the 
monotony and dispel satiety ! Indeed to some skeptics 
the task of Sisyphus seems better adapted to develop 
man's largest capabilities, while in this mortal sphere, 
than any realization of the dreams of either the ideal 
philosopher or the socialistic fanatic. Nevertheless, 
strive as we may, the choice is apparently not with us. 
There seems to be no alternative but to temporize 
and to 

Let the great world spin forever, down the ringing grooves of 
change. 

Social Inferiors. 

It is a peculiar misfortune to one's character to be 
born and bred in nominal equality among real inferiors ; 
— either in intellect, moral endowments, or some social 
circumstances. That is an especially unhealthy atmos- 
phere for the young mind or heart to inhale, which in- 
flates its pride into arrogance, or puffs up its vanity. 



304 £ VMINA TIOATS. 

Nothing so unfits the youthful character to discover its 
true relations to others — to fathom itself, and to arrive 
at its moral equilibrium — as an engorging self-conceit. 
Whether exaggerated selfishness be symbolized, at its 
early lodgment in the human heart, as a root, or perhaps 
more truly as a disease, it cannot be too strongly charac- 
terized as an enemy to that real equanimity which is the 
spirit of all the virtues. 

Happiness, moral or intellectual, can be attained only 
by first putting and keeping one's self in true relation to 
all the men and things that are the actual and unavoid- 
able accompaniments of one's social existence. What- 
ever tends to place one out of harmonious relations with 
one's circumstances, associations, friends, and acquaint- 
ances is hostile to wise or sound development of charac- 
ter, and surely will make one morbid, uncertain, 
irregular, untrustworthy, and perhaps not unjustly, in the 
end, disliked and even distrusted. 

The world has little toleration for merely vain eccen- 
tricity. Whenever this is harmless to society, it may go 
unpunished, except by others' neglect of those who in- 
dulge in its vagaries. But when it attempts to interfere 
recklessly with established social order or, from idle 
vanity, to assert itself in any way counter to the common 
current of things, it is buffetted, or kicked into a corner, 
as worthless rubbish. 

When a person is born and bred among family or 
other relatives, who are greatly his mental or moral in- 
feriors, this seed of misery is sometimes planted very 
early. The intellectual questionings of a bright mind, 
when put to its familiars, are liable to be met by disdain 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 30$ 

or mute despair. A juvenal, encountering such reb.uffs 
among his near companions, soon learns to turn to books, 
usually miscellaneous, or injudiciously chosen. He nour- 
ishes a " youth sublime," by feeding upon what are but 
draff and husks to his immediate associates. This unas- 
similated pabulum probably soon engenders an egotism, 
full of self-love or self-conceit, and an arrogance that 
makes the youth too early self-satisfied. Besides it 
strongly tends to dull the edge of that intelligent 
curiosity, which, under more favorable circumstances, 
properly directed, might grow into a healthy thirst for 
real knowledge. 

There are only a few grand characters, born in any 
period, whose native qualities are so vast and well- 
balanced, that they can rise superior to all adverse sur- 
roundings, and find their way unaided into the society 
of the great world of intellectual endeavor and achieve- 
ment. Most men, if not absolutely controlled by un- 
favorable circumstances, are, at least, so handicapped 
or directed by them, that their real capabilities are 
often, even to themselves, unknown ; — at the least 
until the day has passed, when they might have 
trained such powers to secure their best development, 
and made them the means of accomplishing a worthy 
career. 

CONSPICUOUSNESS. 

There are obvious disadvantages, to counterbalance 
the charms of philosophic composure, in an isolated and 
obscure life. There is also some compensation, for that 



306 R UMINA TIONS. 

loss of privacy and that absence of a feeling of entire 
independence, which are inseparable from an open ca- 
reer. The young man, who fancies no eye is upon him, 
sometimes revels in what we might call a gust of Bohe- 
mianism. He imagines he is a philosopher, when in 
fact he is merely a savage. The tonic influences of 
social ties, and self-restraint, upon his character, being 
relaxed or wholly withdrawn, he is liable to waste his 
moral substance in some unbounded license of thought, 
feeling, or conduct, that, like all other excess, will easily 
run on to satiety, even if it do not destroy the power of 
recuperation. 

Pity it may be, but so we are made. To ignore this 
proverbial truth is to shut our eyes to our iron-like 
mortal limitations. In later life surely will come — 
through any over-indulgence of such private inclina- 
tions — by a natural sequence, in rapid succession if 
unchecked, first what might be called cui-bono-ism / then 
indifference ; and finally, perhaps, even a sort of apathy 
or moral paralysis. 

On the other hand he who lives in the public eye is 
led necessarily to keep his garments pure and white 
so that they may shine unspotted in the sun. The 
natural process of his evolution of character is, there- 
fore, toward conventional conservatism and severe 
moderation in his lower impulses, with a correspond- 
ing tendency to a higher life for his better nature. In 
his inevitable conflict with the malignant spirits of the 
world he finds no armor so nearly invulnerable as this 
panoply of a well-recognized uprightness of personal 
character. 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 307 

Human Progress. 

Moral as well as political ideas seem to move in a de- 
vious track ; — neither steadily forward nor backward, nor 
with a continuous deflection in the same line. Their 
motion is not unlike that ascribed to pigeons ; which are 
said to move by inverted cycloids, when they fly from a 
height — first a descent, then a rise. Human progress 
appears to be not unlike a movement of the waves of a 
slowly incoming tide. Sometimes the retreat seems to 
be greater than the onward movement, when considered 
as separate steps ; yet when taken together headway is 
visibly gained. 

Perhaps, however, a still better illustration of the or- 
dinary course of human progress may be found in its 
resemblance to the motion of a cyclonic storm. Not- 
withstanding it contains within itself a constant rotary 
motion, that makes its direction appear capricious and 
variable, yet its moves steadily forward — although upon 
uncertain lines, and with unequal pace — despite even an 
occasional collision with a counter-storm. 

The chief manifestation, by man, of his superiority in 
intelligence, over that of other animals, lies not only in ac- 
cumulating knowledge, but in his power first of deducing 
abstract ideas from concrete facts and, then — by a higher 
process of the mind — reaching another class of thoughts 
that are perceptible only after the first are attained. 
The most encouraging view of the matter of human ad- 
vancement, and one which significantly indicates a Divine 
hand, is that the firm establishment in the convictions of 
mankind of one cardinal truth or virtue — however small 



308 £ UMINA T10NS. 

in itself — resembles a germinal seed. It renders another 
truth or virtue, not unlike itself — sometimes superior- 
possible, and sooner practicable than if the first had not 
been well recognized. So men may rise, as Tennyson 
says, on "stepping-stones'' to "higher things." 

Opinion, however, moves slowly in the right direction 
and rarely can be hastened until the time — or public 
mind — is ripe for its reception. But it moves. The an- 
nals of superstition, morals, political economy, and 
applied science, leave no doubt of that. Its perpetuity 
is another matter altogether. 

The Spirit of the Age. 

Our time is a period of disenchantment — of dispelling 
illusions — of analysis and of reducing all things to first 
principles. It cannot be called an age of gold or of silver ; 
nor yet wholly of brass. None of these expressions 
touch its leading characteristics fairly. 

Disrespect for authority merely, as a power, is one of 
its prominent features. The glamour of tradition neither 
awes nor cajoles it. It has the simplicity— with the bold- 
ness — of conscious and confessed ignorance. It wants 
to know. It will not be content until it has dissected 
everything. Irreverently and without fear or favor, it 
traces to their source, and analyzes, facts, feelings, habits, 
customs and fancies, or thoughts, together with traditions 
and beliefs. 

Whatever comes in its way — dead or alive — must be 
taken to pieces. It might be called the Age of Atoms. 
It is satisfied only by disintegration and fact. It 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES. 309 

leaves synthesis, reconstruction, and the totality of truth 
to a period of broader thought, and of more reverent 
spirit. At all events it takes no care of the morrow ; it 
lives in the present — regardless of both past and future. 
When it shall have destroyed all that is not based on 
demonstration, if there shall be no more faith nor hope 
left among mankind, apathy will doubtless succeed. 
Then, perhaps, will prevail again ignorance, and conse- 
quently, after a time, new illusions, myths, and recon- 
struction. Mayhap, another Golden Age will come ; — 
to be in its turn demolished ! So reasons the pessimistic 
cynic of our day. 

The Prodigality of Nature. 

The seeming wastefulness of Nature is painfully mani- 
fest in the premature death of a man, whose eminent skill 
and learning are the results of many years' labor in their 
acquisition. In statesmanship, science, invention, juris- 
prudence, or letters, the ripened powers of a lifetime are 
unexpectedly destroyed in a moment. 

The loss is great to mankind ; and it is often irre- 
parable. Not seldom, just at the time when a capacity 
to deal with the more difficult problems of life, or nature, 
has reached its acme, death comes and swallows up all. 
The death of even the most advanced in life — such as an 
Ericsson at eighty-five — sometimes seems harsh. 

New men must arise, and often are obliged to work 
over the half-tilled field unassisted by the experience and 
matured judgment of their seniors, who have been cut 
off in the height of their usefulness, 



3 1 R UMINA TIONS. 

Doubtless there is a wise compensation somewhere in 
such special events ; but like many others of the so-called 
mysteries of nature, it is at present unknown ; and is 
an inexplicable enigma, at least to ordinary observers. 

Law. 

There appears to be a popular impression that in medi- 
cine there must be a known specific for every recog- 
nized disease, and that in law, there is a particular rule 
in a written code, easily applicable to every supposable 
case. 

When, therefore, ordinary people consult a lawyer, 
their inclination is not to give a statement of facts, but 
to state a suppositious case. They prefer to put an 
abstract question, rather than mention details. When 
told that the law for which they inquire would only 
mislead them by its generality, and probably overwhelm 
and confuse them by its qualifications and exceptions, 
they are as much vexed as Macbeth consulting his wife's 
physician. They are as impatient as he to throw physic 
to the dogs and have none of it. 

They are nettled to learn that the precise principle 
they seek cannot be formulated and given them in a few 
words. So also they reluct when requested to give 
particular facts which they deem non-essential. Some- 
times they rebel outright when they learn that there 
cannot be given them a plain rule which they may readily 
apply for themselves. 

In this dissatisfaction with the actual and intrinsic 
condition of such matters — which such people are prone 



SOCIAL HINTS AND STUDIES, 311 

to consider factitious, and cunningly kept up by a pro- 
fession for its own selfish gain — appears to lurk the 
delusion that finds expression in the great desire and 
frequent demand of the popular mind for a formulary, 
of every branch of the law, which he who runs might 
read. 

To Do or Not to Do. 

It is no easy task, at all times, for our infirm human 
nature, when subjected to great temptation, to draw the 
line between what is physically possible and what is 
morally impossible ; between what we can do with 
apparent impunity, and what we feel we ought not to do, 
having due regard for our own real, ultimate good 
and the well-being of others. Besides in ordinary deal- 
ings the point, where the horizon of physical possibility 
is cut by the line of moral impossibility, is not always 
obvious to the eye of one who is under pressure of pas- 
sion, or temptation of interest, or even of importunity of 
others. Yet it is usually just this line — so often thin and 
shadowy — which divides virtue from vice. Upon one 
side of it lie all the cardinal virtues ; while on the other 
maybe wrong, crime, sin, and shame. 

Absence of Religion. 

Mere men of the world, who recklessly assail a people's 
faith in any religion, incur an immeasurable responsi- 
bility. They provoke also a civil problem for which 
history furnishes no practical solution. Can man be 
governed and kept in harmony with the well-being 



312 R UMINA TIONS. 

of society, by simple human law ? Will he not hope 
and expect to escape only human punishment ? Can he 
be made to feel he must suffer for every violation of law, 
or of another's right — to say nothing of a neglect of clear 
duty — if he have neither love for, nor fear of, any 
supernatural, omniscient, unseen Power ? 

Why Should Man Live ? 

To do good to others for the glory of his Creator, says 
the Christian. To do what is best for himself and his 
true self-evolvement, consistently with the laws of nature 
and society, says the pagan philosopher of antiquity. 
To all of these things for the perpetuation and per- 
fection of the human race says the sublime Orientalist. 

Idoloclasm. 

However hazardous to the individual, and however 
dangerous to society, the occupation of idol-breaking 
opens the easiest door to that notoriety, the love of which 
is the besetting sin of the rash, or the superficial reformer. 
No man is ordinarily so ignorant of the remote conse- 
quences of what he is doing, as one who strives to break 
up the slowly-grown, or long-standing habits, laws, and 
customs of a people or a community. 





AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 

He is the greatest artist, then, 
Whether of pencil or of pen, 
Who follows Nature. 

Longfellow. 



VERBAL MUSIC. 

My words are only words, and moved 
Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

Tennyson. 




OETRY may be called rightly the music of 
thought — imaginative or emotional thought. 
Some popular poems, however, appear to 
be, in themselves, little besides rhythmical 
words. Such verses give sounds evoking poetical emo- 
tions, but seem to leave the reader to supply the thought 
— or at least to imagine the significance and coherence 
of their suggestions. To consider thus is perhaps not 
unlike ruffling the down of a butterfly to look for its 
quills. Yet it may be useful to hint in what manner 
some exquisite bits of poetical bric-a-brac may be made 

313 



314 K UMINA TIONS. 

to give pleasure to those who, from their indolence or 
dulness, find in such poets as Emerson, Browning, and 
Tennyson, many things obscure, incoherent, and ellip- 
tical, or only rhapsodies of inspired nonsense. 

Perhaps a book of such poems could be " adapted to 
the use of schools," also, by a sort of prose paraphrase of 
the lines, or by supplying an assortment of such ideas as 
could be readily fitted to the words of the poet. It might 
furnish an edifying experiment for the young student. 
He could give his commentaries according to his notion 
of what, if anything, the poet might be imagined to have 
intended to say. Or he could supply what any articulate 
sounds of similar rhythm might be supposed to suggest 
to one looking for special ideas, and despairing of finding 
any in the text of the particular poem in hand. Such an 
exercise would tend at least to cultivate the poetical fac- 
ulty of the pupil — aside from the value of any discoveries 
that might be made. 

To illustrate the method proposed let us test a short 
popular poem of Tennyson by way of example : — 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, oh sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

The poet is watching the incoming tide upon a rocky 
coast — probably at Clevedon, on the British Channel. 
Here are heard and seen the beating and breaking of the 
everlasting waves of the great sea, rolling and dashing 
upon the resisting but motionless rocks. Melancholy 
sounds escape from the scattered billows, as they are 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 315 

driven back in myriad fragments of bubbles, foam, and 
spray — endlessly renewing the hopeless assault, and as 
often impelled by the immobility of the " cold gray 
stones." These monotonous sights and sounds fill the 
heart of the poet with sadness. He sees the untiring 
efforts of a great power thwarted by the mere repose of a 
greater one. His sympathy naturally goes with the weaker ; 
while the music of the rhythmical sounds stirs mournful 
feelings in his bosom. These emotions he shares in kind 
with the general mass of men and women ; although in 
him doubtless they are, in degree, more intense by reason 
of his supreme poetical temperament. So far we follow 
him and sympathize. His lines merely transfuse into the 
music of humanity the voices of the resounding sea. 
Thereby he claims his kinship with the whole human 
world — while the metrical words he employs keep time 
with the undulatory vibrations of the swelling waves. 

But when he wishes he might " utter the thoughts that 
arise " in him — like many another poet before and since — 
he seems to mistake feelings for ideas and emotions for 
thoughts. If a man have a real thought, usually, somehow, 
he can utter or describe it. Generally men, and even poets, 
think either in words or in pictures, or in metaphors. 

When a man tells us his feelings are too great, or too 
confused for his utterance, we can well believe him. But 
when his tongue refuses to utter what he believes he 
thinks ; or he brings a bill of indictment against language 
for insufficiency to express his thoughts, we suspect that — 
as in the case of other incompetent workmen who have 
quarrelled with their tools — the fault is elsewhere. 
Mayhap, however, his suggestion is more opulent to the 



3 1 6 R UMIJVA TIONS. 

fancy than his description could be. So that we need 
waste no regrets over the inability of a poet's tongue to 
give out more words. If they came, we may rest assured 
they would be as vague and obscure as the natural sounds 
they vainly sought to interpret. Our poet wisely leaves 
such practice to others. Yet, as he is filled with poetical 
emotions, which he is apparently conscious of sharing with 
all mankind, he seems to say to himself, as he says to the 
world elsewhere : — 



I cannot make this matter plain, 
But I will shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 



Whereupon he proceeds to sing the sweet music of the 
sad sea waves, as others have sung of them before him, 
though seldom perhaps with such delicacy, harmony, and 
grace as he. 

This futile travail of Euterpe has thwarted the hopes 
of other lyric poets, as well as Tennyson. Even our own 
accomplished Stoddard once sang of his grievance in this 
wise, with pathetic humility : — 

A thousand dreamy melodies, 

Begot with pleasant pain, 
Like incantations float around 

The chambers of my brain. 

But when I strive to utter one, 

It mocks my feeble art, 
And leaves me silent, with the thorn 

Of music in my heart ! 

One word more is due in behalf of the English poet. 
Perhaps too harsh a judgment has been given against his 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 317 

opening verse. When he laments that his tongue cannot 
" utter " his " thoughts/' possibly he may refer to those 
awful and tumultuous upheavals of the soul that some- 
times are provoked by the sounds and shows of the work- 
ings of the great powers of Nature. Then the personality 
of the hearer stands out, almost, as it were, palpable to 
his sense of feeling. The individual is all in all to him- 
self ; and his fellow-men are as nothing to him. All the 
oppressive mysteries of existence seem to stare him in the 
face, and, for the time, he knows only his relation to his 
Maker ; — while he keenly feels his special responsibility 
for his own peculiar identity. At such a time to " utter " 
his thoughts would be to tear away the veil that hides 
from the common eye the sacred penetralia, where he 
keeps that part of his nature which is beyond the reach of 
human sympathy. 

If the poet intended to say that it would give relief to 
his bosom were it permissible to " utter " thoughts of this 
nature — thoughts which, purely out of respect to his 
individuality, must be kept wholly to himself — then the 
criticism would be unjust. Nevertheless if such had been 
his meaning, the verses would be still subject to the cavil 
of being a specimen of what may be called suppressed 
poetry. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

It is " well " for youth to be deaf to the melancholy 
suggestions these murmurings of the sea pour into the 
hearts of those who have lost their early illusions, have 



3 1 8 R UMINA TIONS. 

been cheated of their expectations, and have found the 
anticipated pleasures and gains of existence hollow and 
unsubstantial. Here the poet has a " thought " — although 
again common enough. The contrast of this happy pair 
of children-at-play, with his own tearful emotions, as the 
desolation of the past unrolls before his vision, affects 
him visibly. 

He has no trouble with want of looseness in his 
" tongue " now. He thinks in a picture, and he utters a 
description of a scene. But, the thought being too 
ordinary for expansion, he puts the whole force of his 
idea in the simple expression "well," and, like a dainty 
master as he is, leaves it — as a painting of the school of 
le premier coup. 

And the stately ships go on, 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

The ships (like the children-at-play) go on in their 
way, regardless of the roar and murmuring of these re- 
sistless and ever-beating sea-waves. The vessels reach 
their haven unaffected by such sentimental repinings as 
trouble disillusioned mortals. When the winds shall 
blow, and storms shall rage, perhaps these " stately ships " 
may again put forth their energy, and give battle to 
fierce waves. But now, unruffled and approaching port, 
with all their purposes accomplished — with a show of 
serene dignity, and a consciousness of good work done 
and of perils overcome — they are "stately" to the poet's 
eye. They now seem to have every wish most longed for 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 319 

accomplished. In bitter contrast, the moaning of the 
breaking sea still lingers in the poet's ear. The 
" thoughts " of his misery — as he recalls the snapping 
asunder of the " silver cord " of early friendship, or the 
breaking of the " golden bowl " of love — bring forth a 
sigh that touches every heart sensitive to human sym- 
pathy. His " tongue " is no longer at a loss for words. 
They come, tumultuous as these rushing waves, and then 
die away in a moan of tender regret, like the receding 
tide of the echoing sea itself. 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, oh sea ! 
For the tender grace of a day that is dead, 

Will never come back to me. 

As tears fill the eyes of the poet, in his dream of the 
past, he gives way to despair. He sees no more the 
children, or the ships ; or scarcely the impassive rocks. He 
grieves as one who will not be comforted. Joy is dead. 
The happiness of a former day is gone — never to return. 
Not even ideas now are wanting. He evolves more than 
mere emotion. His thought is strong and clear, and 
when he gives it voice the sound rings in the ear like a 
funeral knell. Here, too, the thought being trite, a very 
little dilation of it would make it impalpable or tiresome. 
The poet shows his skill and taste again by the delicacy 
of his touch ; — by leaving well-enough alone. Would 
that the workmen of his gentle craft might follow more 
frequently his example ; — instead of sometimes spinning 
their silken cobwebs so fine that the thread becomes in- 
visible, or beating even gold so thin that all appreciable 
substance is hammered out of it. 



II. 



THE COMING NOVEL. 

After the abundant invective poured on this class of books it is 
time to settle forever the controversy, by asserting that these works 
of fiction are among the most instructive of every polished nation, 
and must contain all the useful truths of human life, if composed 
with genius. 

Isaac D' Israeli. 




OT long ago one of the most enterprising of 
our city newspapers propounded to many 
men and women of letters in this country 
the questions : Who will write the " future 
novel " ? and What will it be ? None appeared to doubt 
that something extraordinary is coming, and is, indeed, 
not very far off ; — although there was a good deal of 
variety in their opinions as to what it will be like, and 
who .shall write it. Of course it will be done by an Ameri- 
can ! Not a few of either sex are assured it will be 
written by a woman; and, more than one, that it must be 
something that " will sell." As Mr. Barnes of New 
York and Thou Shalt Not are probably now ahead 
by this test, the prospect thus indicated would seem not 
encouraging for the classic method. Indeed, this melan- 

320 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 32 1 

choly view of the matter appears to be entertained by 
Anthony Comstock himself. The majority however are 
hopeful of better things. 

Some of the respondents appear to think it will be 
what is called by them a " psychological study" — or a 
" sensible psychology for the idle." Others are confident it 
will be " realistic." Mr. Gilder, who perhaps ought to 
know as well as any one, looks for what he characterizes 
as " imaginative realism " ; while Mr. Howells is confi- 
dent that — " when Victor Hugo died the death-knell of 
romantic fiction was sounded," and that " realism will be 
the style of fiction in the future." Professor Boyesen— 
haud inexpertus— also thinks the " tendency of fiction is 
toward a close fidelity to life and a closer adherence to 
the logic of reality." Noah Brooks is clear that it will 
be "realistic, not a vision" — but "highly imaginative." 

Apparently conflicting opinions are expressed by many 
other well-known writers, not easily reconcilable. Irre- 
spective of what the " novel of the future " ought to be, 
however, they seem to think that, while keeping in equi- 
librium with the sociological thought or opinion of the 
progressing day, it will move probably in many of the 
same channels as, and by methods not seriously different 
from, those already pursued by the masters of the popu- 
lar classics in this department of literature during the 
latter half of this century. To our humble thinking 
there is among them one hint of superior wisdom. 
That is a suggestion adopted by Miss Jewett, from Flau- 
bert : — L'ecrire la vie ordinaire comme on ecrit V histoire. 

Notwithstanding an insane oratorical outcry, now 

sometimes heard, that the idea of a working rule of " sup- 
si 



322 £ UMINA TIONS. 

ply and demand " is (like other political axioms) an ex- 
ploded notion, we are conservative enough to believe that 
a law, obeyed or enacted at the creation of our race, as 
a necessity of human perpetuation, will survive the refor- 
matory associations of our day, and continue to prevail, 
in literature as elsewhere, until the crack of doom. 
When our people assimilate and grow more homogeneous, 
as it is called — however far distant the day of fruition 
in that respect may be protracted by immigration and 
clannish obstinacy — and as our past social history, fading 
into indistinctness of detail by lapse of time, opens the 
door of romance — until only the elemental traits of hu- 
man nature in our ancestors, and those illustrative of 
such events and incidents as keep the whole world akin, 
survive in popular memory — a more sincerely native belles- 
lettres literature may spring up and flourish among us. 

Possibly, however, under our new copyright law, some 
trained English writer of genius may sooner come and 
squat upon our neglected patrimonial territory ; — unless 
some native Blackmore shall meanwhile arise among 
ourselves to tell more fully the romantic story of our 
remote past Southern social life. Here might be tested 
the unexhaustibleness of a mine of romance, while the 
realists are working the limited vein of contemporary 
fact. 

Moreover, as our peculiar universal-suffrage civiliza- 
tion (by which practically the bottom governs the top) 
is developing, and its destiny— good or bad, for weal or 
woe— is working out, by actual demonstration, toward its 
logical end, it seems probable that, as a nation of read- 
ers, we shall meanwhile — even during our transitional 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 323 

period — demand that our literary appetites be consulted. 
Perhaps we shall be supplied with realistic literary food 
fit only and convenient for us in our larva state. 

It does not seem likely that a nascent giant — spreading 
out its arms to grasp and enfold all the forms of civilization 
with their products, and to mould them to its purposes — 
shall be so ignorant of its true needs as to be much 
longer content with literary aliment designed merely for 
alien appetites and a social condition widely different 
from its own. It never can be quite satisfied until it 
shall be supplied with something more in sympathy and 
accord with its leading tendencies, its hungriest longings, 
its deepest thoughts, its boldest intentions, its most earn- 
est convictions and determinations. 

It requires but little observation to perceive that the 
social problems of many of our political communities are 
steadily working toward practical solutions — whether 
constructive or destructive — that find but little warrant, 
for the merit or favor claimed for them, in the experi- 
ence of the past. Demagogical lust of partisan power — 
with consequent class legislation and stolen wealth — is 
everywhere contributing some fresh impetus to the 
natural tendency of a newly discovered possession of 
strength to stimulate its possessors to exercise mere arbi- 
trary force freely, as a sovereign cure for all possible 
social evils. 

Conservative learning — in politics, in history, and 
in belles-lettres — is an apparent means of staying or 
directing that swelling tide of popular opinion which is 
now gradually undermining ancient foundations, sweep- 
ing away venerated landmarks and threatening by 



324 R UMINA TIONS. 

revolutionary legal enactment to make every human pos- 
session subject to the caprice of an irresponsible majority, 
which recognizes no restraint to its conduct, but its own 
opinion of what is immediately profitable to itself. The 
conflict of such elements of disorder with rights of 
property and social custom, running through our daily 
life, must necessarily be reflected in our current literature 
if it be honest and earnest. And the modern novel seems 
to have become a looking-glass in which society can best 
see its full-length portrait during each passing hour. 

One of the most important functions of a real and 
sound native national literature is, consciously or not, to 
bring into harmonious perspective — while suggesting their 
true relation — the events, the social life, and the characters 
that compose the national history and, as it were, manifest 
the national soul. To do this, is a work of time in a 
double sense. First, the component materials of the 
picture must be so far developed,, by their progress 
toward maturity — in their interdependent relations — as to 
be easy of comprehension by the common mind, when 
indicated by the hand of genius. Next, the growth of 
productive intellectual capacity, in the field of belles- 
lettres, must be ripened by time, disciplined by study, 
and trained by exercise, sufficiently to make its task easy 
and genial to its possessors. 

The novel is, indeed, no longer a mere romance. How- 
ever romantic, it ought also to be a true transcript, in 
spirit at least, of social life past or present in the country 
and among the people for whom it is written. Neither is 
a novel a history of public events, nor a biography, nor a 
diary, nor a fable, nor an allegory, nor a parable, Nc-r 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 32$ 

should it be memoirs nor letters, nor travels, nor impres- 
sions, nor speculations, nor preaching, nor moral lessons. 
Least of all is it a work of memory, or of simple contem- 
plation of the lines of ordinary persons and places. 

Of course it must have a tale to tell, and its main pur- 
pose must be to tell it thoroughly. But it ought to be a 
thing of action, a drama played before the eye of the 
mind, an objective work of art, a presentation of practi- 
cal human nature, however romantic, on its social side, as 
opposed to its individual or political or simple historical 
aspect. It is far away from the domain of science, phys- 
ical, political, or moral, in the abstract. It is a mind- 
picture of human life — or of man as a social being, and 
of society as his field of conduct. True, it may involve 
to some extent in the hand of a great master, like Hugo 
or Balzac, nearly everything which in itself it is not ; — 
but only as secondary or incidental to its purpose ; per- 
haps as a background, a canvas or a frame, is necessary 
to a painting. 

It seems to be agreed that any good novel must be a 
concrete representation of verisimilous men and women 
in their domestic and private relations with one another. 
In order to determine what shall be the novel of the fu- 
ture among us it would be well also to consider carefully 
what are the intrinsic nature and characteristics of the 
typical modern novel, as well as what features of it are 
non-essential, fugitive, temporary, or accidental. 

The novel writer of the first class among us, whose 
work shall surely survive the time of its production, 
must be by nature a poet, an artist, and a dramatist, 
with a measureless spiritual inborn insight for human 



326 ;£ UM1MA TIONS. 

nature, and all its springs of action — romantic as well as 
practical. He must besides have an intimate acquired 
knowledge — apart from books or hearsay — of his coun- 
trymen in all their traditional psychical and actual so- 
cial relations. He must be well informed of the motives 
and conduct of men and women in their personal 
intercourse at all times, in all places, and under all 
circumstances among the people of his own country. 
He must also have a sincere sympathy for human nature 
in its weakness and folly, as 'well as in its dignity and 
virtue. 

It is a truism to say a novel writer of the highest order 
must be born with genius and practical talent to make 
his genius effective. Yet it is almost marvellous what a 
man of mere talent, by assiduous cultivation and practice, 
during a long life may achieve in this direction. Bulwer 
is a shining example. Had he possessed a little more 
of the divine spark that illumined the minds of such 
men as Fielding and Dickens his elaborate work could 
never grow cold. 

One half the world, says the proverb, is always trying 
to find out how the other half lives. The novel pretends 
to teach them something of this in an attractive way, and 
will always find readers in proportion as such pretensions 
are verified. 

There are now so many pens engaged in the same 
rivalry it is reasonable to suppose that somehow what is so 
eagerly sought will be attained ; — if there be nothing in 
the nature of our peculiar political or social condition 
to make it unattainable. They may at least learn some- 
thing from one another's faults and shortcomings — of 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 327 

course always easily visible to each other — even if they 
be unteachable by their own. As our public grows more 
thoroughly amalgamated, and learns to manifest a com- 
mon expression of what it needs and desires, the demand 
will probably be supplied. For, of contemporary liter- 
ary fame^ what can be more attractive than that of the 
inspired story-teller in full popularity, with fair promise 
of immortality ? To be lovingly in everybody's mouth 
and heart ought to satisfy the most ambitious friend of 
his race. 

However, novels nowadays usually are not written to 
satisfy a very high ideal. When they are so written, for 
the most part, hitherto they seem to have failed to hit 
their mark, or to find all the readers they covet. Practi- 
cally novels are written merely so as to endeavor to 
entertain the public. Their aim should be to amuse, to 
elevate, to purify, as well as to satisfy the craving curi- 
osity of the common mind and heart for an insight of the 
secret motives of men and women — past or contemporary 
— in their conduct, whether under ordinary circum- 
stances or in special vicissitudes. 

Moreover, all mankind likes a tale, a plot, with inci- 
dents, adventures, and the working of the natural 
sequence of all the romance of human affairs. This de- 
sire is born in us. It sways us very early in life — before 
we begin ourselves to make personal history — and it is 
still a resource of pleasure in our later days. A dull 
story may bore us ; but a good one is a source of enjoy- 
ment to almost every one. 

The novel that shall take and hold the American pub- 
lic, as that public now is or shall be constituted in any 



328 R UM1NA TIONS. 

calculable future, must also be honestly home-like in 
spirit and in fact. It must be sincerely in touch with the 
essence of actual American life and ideas, past, present, 
and prospective. It must not be English or otherwise 
European. Whether it be romantic or realistic, dramatic 
or narrative, descriptive or psychological, historical or 
biographical, contemporary or archaeological, or some- 
what of all of these ; certainly it must be thoroughly, in 
all essentials, American. Probably that is the reason it 
is so long in its coming ; — because it must reproduce, 
with visible sequence, a peculiarly fragmentary life, char- 
acter, sociology and ideas, which none but a genius of the 
highest order can blend in a harmonious picture— or 
even divine in its real or intrinsical spirit. A thousand 
brains are, however, at work upon the problem. When 
the time is ripe for it, doubtless it will come — although it 
may be a surprise to many, whensoever it shall appear. 




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III. 



NOVELTY IN BELLES-LETTRES. 



-truth is truth 



To the end of the reckoning. 

Measure for Measure. 




T would be hard to estimate the many diffi- 
culties overcome by a successful aspirant 
for real literary honor at the present stage 
of English-speaking society. Not only must 
he deserve recognition and reward ; but the great read- 
ing public must have been taught by a slow process to 
know his merits and thoroughly trust them. Merely to gain 
the ear of that public is in itself a herculean task ; — not 
unfrequently accomplished only after the writer has found 
an obscure grave. Indeed it is no unusual thing — as is 
too well known — for such an one to quit the world under 
the conviction that both critics and successful authors 
have conspired to prevent his abilities being popularly 
recognized. Doubtless this fiery crucible, like some other 
unprized blessings, has an incalculable value in purging 
from crude ore much dross. Nevertheless the process 
is easily misunderstood and readily condemned by the 

329 



330 £ VMINA T10NS. 

genius that languishes with deferred hope, or dies by the 
stab of some literary bravo. 

When a beginner, however well equipped, sets out to 
write upon general topics — sometimes perhaps for the 
mere sake of writing something to be read, unimpelled by 
axiy furor divinus— one formidable obstacle in his path is 
the apparent fact that whatever he may suppose to be 
worth saying, probably in some form has been said al- 
ready. Nay, even if he actually shall have discovered a 
fairly valuable or otherwise interesting idea, the odds are 
that it has been well expressed before his time. 

The Islamitic logic of Omar, and its fiery consequences, 
may perhaps somewhat contract the limits of his embar- 
rassment. Nevertheless all written wisdom and story, he 
is forced to concede, did not perish in that benign 
conflagration. Countless crystallizations of vagrant 
thoughts, inspired conceptions and celestial myths per- 
sistently survive. " Gold of the dead," they are inde- 
structible, however much they may be overlaid with the 
accumulated dust of centuries. Dug up from superin- 
cumbent rubbish, they are easily recognizable as the 
unique productions — whether discoveries or inventions — 
of an early day. To confront a self-conceit, born of 
supposititious originality, they are sedulously preserved, 
however obsolete —at least among cabinets devoted to 
rare antiques. And it may be added, their cynical col- 
lectors are not slow to invite the unwilling author — am- 
bitious of repute for novelty — to free inspection of these 
sometimes unwelcome mouldy treasures. 

A lack of profound originality — which is generally 
something far beyond mere novelty — might naturally be 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 33 1 

looked for in our own polite literature. In works of taste 
or imagination and all that may be called aesthetical, the 
American mind appears to have been largely handicapped 
by wide access, of author and reader, to the literary 
productions of all the accomplished societies of the old 
world. Mental indolence — positive or comparative — is a 
common infirmity. It is much easier to imitate and adapt 
than to study, or to meditate and produce original work. 
Hence perhaps the charge sometimes truly made of a slow- 
ness of our letters in dealing thoroughly with our own 
peculiar social problems or historical traits, and a tendency 
among us to superficialness, or flippant disdain, in handling 
such matters. 

After Homer, Socrates, and Shakespeare; after the legion 
of philosophers and poets — among every people, either 
in the past or still existing — have explored and harvested 
the field of human nature, both in the abstract and in the 
concrete ; have studied and portrayed the character and 
story of man as an individual, and also as a being associated 
with his fellow-men in family or community — whether 
as a citizen or as a ruler of empire, kingdom, republic, or 
democracy — what can now be said or imagined by the 
writer of belles-lettres — partaking of the nature of either 
the general or the universal — that already, in some manner, 
has not been well enough told ? Pope seems to have felt 
the force of this notion as a truism when he said : — 

True wit is Nature to advantage drest, 

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed. 

And so too of late a popular critic has provoked the wrath 
of more than one genuine poet, by expressing the opinion 



3 3 5 # UMINA TfONS. 

that there has been written already poetry enough to 
supply all the legitimate wants of the present and perhaps 
of a long future period. 

Not very remotely akin to this want of novelty in ideas, 
as a stumbling-block in the way of the class of litterateurs 
of which we speak, may be the fact of too much novelty 
— at least to the public — in the name of the writer him- 
self. To the scientific reader in pursuit of knowledge it 
matters very little what may be the source of a principle 
or an idea, or even a statement of fact, that gives informa- 
tion or suggests a truth, provided it be trustworthy. So also 
with a Bacon, a Newton, or a Franklin, the fall of an 
apple, the narrative of a child, or even the cackling of a 
goose, might start a train of thought leading up to the dis- 
covery of a recondite law of nature. 

But with the mass of mankind what is said appears to 
be of far less importance, generally, than who says it. 
Despite the fact that some of the most popular books in 
the world are of unknown authorship, few men can read 
the expression of an idea, and take it upon its mere merits, 
without first looking to see the name behind it. Seldom 
opinions, of recent growth in the world, are weighed 
according to their intrinsic worth. They are dependent 
mostly for their current value upon the position or present 
fame of those who express or endorse them. 

Schopenhauer says : — "Those who, instead of studying 
the thoughts of a philosopher, make themselves acquainted 
with his life and history, are like the people who, instead 
of occupying themselves with a picture, are rather occu- 
pied with its frame, reflecting on the taste of its carving, 
or the nature of its gilding." In political speech, such a 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 333 

habit of estimating the value of another's opinion or judg- 
ment may be often judicious in order to determine the 
honesty, or at least the point of view, of the speaker : — 
for instance, when a debasement of the national currency 
— through legal-tender paper, or a deceitful silver coinage 
— is advocated by a representative of adventurous debtors, 
or of owners of silver mines, or colossal speculators in the 
necessaries of life. But why should the name or fame of 
an author be so commonly held to be the chief test of 
merit — among the common mass of publishers and read- 
ers — in fresh belles-lettres ? Is life too short, for us to 
judge for ourselves ? 

No doubt much of this condition of things is due to 
our haste and indolence, since obviously it is so much easier 
for most people to succumb to authority than to think 
for themselves. Almost unavoidably, amid the multitude 
of affairs in our busy life, we neglect to listen to every 
voice that challenges attention. We insensibly fall into 
the habit of discriminating, and letting pass unheeded 
nearly all except those which, by some special claim, 
arrest our attention. Sometimes we suffer no little loss, 
and perhaps deserve some self-reproach, for heedless dis- 
regard of real worth, as the habit grows upon us of turn- 
ing a deaf ear to voices that are not shouted through a 
trumpet. For, as Rosalind says, even 

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear 

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue 

Of him that makes it. 

To return from this apparent digression to matters 
more immediately relevant, the old paradox remains that, 



334 * UMINA TIONS. 

while "there is no new thing under the sun," yet, " of 
making many books there is no end." And the fact, of men 
and women continuing to write and to read innumerable 
books, that like the ever-flowing tides seem to threaten to 
overwhelm us, must have some explanation, other than 
the flippant suggestion that readers are generally foolish. 
It is perhaps true that not a few popular writers of our 
day — we refer to some of those with the largest numerical 
constituency of actual readers — may and do, speculate 
liberally upon the short memory, inattention, and igno- 
rance of the majority of those for whom they write. Such 
authors may offset to the punishment, sometimes inflicted 
upon them by uncongenial critics, a soothing balm 
extracted from the sweets of revenue. In the same 
spirit as the Athenian miser, they may say of their critic : — 

me sibilat, at mihi plaudo 
Ipse domi, simul ac nummos contemplor in area. 

Among the larger mass of miscellaneous readers a great 
deal can be done — in the way of ministering to a gross 
love of apparent novelty— by a reckless author, simply 
through his laying vulgar hands upon subjects usually 
deemed sacredly exempt from profane touch — what 
George Eliot well calls " debasing the moral currency." 
Profits also may accrue sometimes by boldly trusting to 
the common trait, appertaining to each passing generation, 
of inattention to things out of sight of the current time. 
By this latter reliance an adroit caterer may dish up for 
the appetite of the common reader many a toothsome 
ragout. Its ingredients may be stale ; but the resources 
of a cunning culinary treatment may disguise their " very 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 335 

ancient and fish-like smell/' until the literary gourmand 
shall cry out " delicious.'' The writer may change 
names, dates, places, or costumes, and transform situa- 
tions, persons, language, or manners, until by a kind of 
kaleidoscopic shuffle he shall have produced odd com- 
binations that wear all the appearance of novelty, and 
please the fresh reader as well as if they were pure co- 
herent inventions, or the congruous productions of a 
new insight among the mysteries of things classed as un- 
known in nature, or society. Besides, reference should 
not be omitted to other familiar, but usually unconscious, 
resources whereby some men fancy themselves original 
when they are merely silly ; while others, as the proverb 
runs, think themselves profound when they are merely 
obscure. 

Far beyond the scope of these tricks of charlatanry in 
book-making, there is, however, continually arising above 
the surface of the times a new world for those authors 
who have the keenness of perception to discover and 
the grasp of genius to seize and hold its marvellous 
possessions. Circumstances and people are always chan- 
ging their relative conditions ; new inventions in the arts 
and sciences, as well as their application to our growing 
needs, are steadily modifying the social methods and 
moral significance of our practical every-day life. New 
forms of civilization ; novel experiments in local legisla- 
tion ; strange vicissitudes in social intercourse involving 
the devolution of vast wealth upon undisciplined 
shoulders ; curious problems of political and communal 
association are continually growing up. They come also 
out of the opening and cultivating of new territories, the 



3 3 6 R UMINA TIONS. 

ever-broadening basis of political suffrage, the thrusting of 
governmental power into the hands of half-civilized or 
brutally ignorant men, and the commingling in forced 
brotherhood of remote, barbaric, or infant races with 
cultivated and refined older ones. 

Again, as the details of our own distant past grow obso- 
lete, and the strangeness of its contrast with the living 
present increases, social curiosity is easily aroused to 
study the old, and perhaps find delight in the retrospect 
or the comparison. This is eminently true in respect to 
the productions of semi-romantic fiction for our vast 
reading-loving public. By-and-by, mayhap, some new- 
born novelist will surprise and entertain the world, by the 
discovery of some Eldorado among us ; — possibly through 
a closer study of the lives, joys, and sorrows of our early 
urban colonists. For, to the sense of the rising genera- 
tion, their marble records are already mossy with age, 
and their annals hazy with the glamour of traditional 
romance. Then may follow a mad rush of lesser writers 
to seize its now open, but almost unseen, treasures await- 
ing development into a coherent and characteristic basis 
of American belles-lettres literature. 

Besides, however true it be that individual man may 
remain in essence the same finite, measured, weighed, and 
calculated entity, yet as we all know society never stands 
still. Its very healthfulness, like the waters of great seas, 
is not a little dependent upon its endless agitation, or 
backward and forward motion. New phases of civiliza- 
tion, and new social exigencies, constantly beget new 
dramatic situations and new ideas. The relative condi- 
tion of things, temporal or perpetual, fugitive or per- 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 337 

manent, must be constantly studied anew ; and the 
secret of their affinities found out and unfolded to each 
rising generation. The unimportant at times suddenly 
becomes essential ; and novel enigmas come out of the 
unexpected juxtaposition of current events. 

Indeed, the horoscope of our future must be frequently 
recast, as the standpoint of the present shifts its position. 
Instead of the ambitious belles-lettres writer laying down 
his pen in despair, because there is apparently nothing 
new to busy it, if he rightly comprehend this modern 
world he lives in, he will find his energies taxed to the 
utmost, to keep pace with the apparently endless variety 
of new things, and the ever ripening harvest our period 
may yield to the sickle of him who shall know how to 
handle it. 




IV. 

AUTHORSHIP. 

No author ever spared a brother, 
Wits are gamecocks to one another. 

Gay. 

Authors' Rights. 




UT little practical good is to be gained now, for 
the cause of an international copyright, among 
the mass of our people, by a further discus- 
sion of the mere abstract, moral right of foreign 
authors to the exclusive reproduction and sale of their 
works in this country. This condition of things arises 
from many causes, among which three may be enumer- 
ated. First, mankind generally are slow to acknowledge 
that strangers can claim anything of right, or otherwise 
than by privilege and comity. Second, the right to 
exclusive use of literary property (irrespective of legisla- 
tion ) is not universally recognized by civilized nations, 
but was denied, after a most solemn and deliberate argu- 
ment, by the law of England, more than a hundred years 
ago, and that decision was never reversed. Third, this 
" right " (which, being founded upon an act of creation, 

338 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 339 

apparently rests on a better basis of natural equity than 
most other rights of incorporeal property) is so easily 
disputed by appeals to cupidity, and the refutation of 
sophistical objections to it involves such subtle consid- 
erations and such nice distinctions, that the common 
mind is lost in their mazes. Through despair or indo- 
lence, it falls back the victim of bold fallacies and false 
analogies of those who deny altogether the right of 
literary property, after a first publication. 

Some writers seem to think the author's right to a 
property in his writings, containing the expression of his 
original ideas, is like the right of property in animals 
ferce natures ; — is lost when one loses possession or con- 
trol of the subject ; and that there is no right of recla- 
mation against another who has acquired possession. 
Others say that ideas belong to human nature, so that 
no one can appropriate them, or forestall the right of 
every one to take them wherever he may find them, and 
that the notion of property is not predicable either of 
ideas or of any form of expressing them. Indeed, those 
who cannot, or will not, perceive the basis of this 
"right," by a conscientious instinct, are very hard to in- 
struct or persuade. May not the subject be approached 
in another, if perhaps humbler, way ? Let us try. 

First. — It is safe probably now to assume, that the 
American people recognize the fact that books must be 
furnished to them in large numbers to satisfy the abso- 
lute needs of the public for instruction, refinement, and 
amusement ; that it is well for our readers to be supplied 
with such books as are best suited to their condition ; 
and that we can well afford to incur some additional 



34° R UMINA TIONS. 

expense, if necessary, in order to accomplish this impor- 
tant result. 

Second. — It will not be doubted that a large body of 
disciplined, trained, and specially educated men — to 
whom literature is a profession and the means of those 
comforts and luxuries of life which Americans so highly 
value — will produce more readily and more certainly the 
books required than dilettanti, or even earnest men of 
education, to whom literature is a mere recreation after 
their best powers are spent in some exhausting occupa- 
tion by which they earn their daily bread — or is a refuge 
from mere tcedium vitce at a later period of life, when the 
freshness and energy of youth have passed irrevocably 
away. 

Third. — It will also be conceded probably that, down 
to this period of time, the American people have not been 
supplied with miscellaneous books (of literature to say 
the least) particularly adapted to their special needs ; 
but that, on the contrary, a large number of books gen- 
erally read here were written exclusively for a different 
people — although for the most part speaking the same 
language, yet of different habits and mode of govern- 
ment — a people whose social and political ideas, as 
reflected in their literature, are necessarily widely different 
from ours. Nay, although among these foreign people 
there are now some evidences of an approximation to our 
mode of thinking on some leading political, and conse- 
quently social, subjects, yet so irreconcilably different 
from ours is the fundamental basis, and, indeed, the whole 
structure of their society, that at least all their popular 
literature — which embodies manners and social ideas — 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 34I 

always has been, and for a generation to come, must be, 
better adapted to corrupt, bewilder, or mislead American 
readers than to enlighten, instruct, or intelligently amuse 
them. 

Fourth. — If these propositions be admitted (and they 
seem almost self-evident) then those who recognize the 
usefulness of a body of native literature above the grade 
of the newspaper, and also those who feel the gross defi- 
ciency of the American people in this respect, can hardly 
doubt that everything should be done, if not to encourage 
American literary talent, at least to give it a fair oppor- 
tunity to enter the field and satisfy this demand; provided 
always it can be done without injustice to any one's 
rights, and without prejudice to the interests of any one 
entitled to be sustained in the possession of such interests. 

Fifth. — Free, unrestricted international copyright pro- 
poses to cure the great defect in our system already 
hinted at, and to remedy the evils resulting from it, at 
the same time giving Americans an opportunity to seek 
a livelihood in the honorable pursuit of the profession of 
literature. Justice demands it, and policy advocates it. 
Yet, I would not desire to encourage the writing of 
books merely to placate the men among us who wish to 
write. I would advocate open international copyright, 
not so much for the sake of doing justice to authors, 
either foreign or domestic, as that books might be written 
such as American men, women, and children ought to 
read. The point I would keep in view is that the minds 
of our whole people, ceasing to be debauched by unwhole- 
some foreign stimulants, may, by the myriad forms of 
a home literature, be brought to bear intelligently upon 



342 R UMINA TIONS. 

the social and political problems of our own society ; — 
instead of wasting their strength and growing frivolous by 
becoming interested in questions and matters arising out of 
a social or political condition having almost nothing in com* 
mon with the radical peculiarities of the American system. 

Sixth. — Indeed, the clamor for impartial international 
copyright ought not to come from the American author. 
His claim is secondary in importance, though first in 
right. In fact, it seems to be a misfortune for the cause 
that so much of the cry should have come (as by the 
necessity of the case it has) from those who would expect 
to profit pecuniarily from the project. It makes men 
inclined to suspect their motive, while in reality, as 
becomes their calling, they plead not so much for them- 
selves as for the highest interest of all Americans. 

Upon these grounds, it seems an open international 
copyright law might be advocated. Perhaps it would be 
well to soar above individual interests, to advance a wide 
step beyond any mere hope of gain to the author (how- 
ever just his claim) and to put the case, in its practical 
bearings, upon the ground of the greatest good to the 
greatest number of our whole people. That is sound 
American doctrine, and on that field the contest should 
be made henceforth. Let the watchword be : Ameri- 
can Books for the American People. 

Amateur Writing. 

Isaac D' Israeli, in his Calamities of Authors, says : — 
" A great author once surprised me by inquiring what I 
meant by ' an author by profession. ' He seemed offended 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 343 

at the supposition that I was creating an odious distinc- 
tion between authors. I was only placing it among 
their calamities." 

And in that famous controversy, which most American 
authors look upon as the source of all their woes, Lord 
Camden's familiar and successful speech smacks of like 
vintage with the thought of D'Israeli's inquisitor. Doubt- 
less the learned nobleman uttered a sentiment popular 
enough in his day, when he said : " Glory is the reward 
of science, and those who deserve it, scorn all meaner 
views. I speak not of the scribblers for bread who 
tease the press with their wretched productions. . . . 
It was not for gain that Bacon, Newton, Milton, Locke, 
instructed and delighted the world ; it would be un- 
worthy such men to traffic with a dirty bookseller for 
so much as a sheet of letter-press ! " 

But in this practical age successful amateurship, in 
belles-lettres at least, is becoming an obsolete idea. 
Literature (such as it is) has attained among us the 
traits of a profession. Like most other professions it 
now ranks as a business or trade — in which the spur of 
pecuniary reward appears for the most part to be con- 
sidered necessary to keep the faculty for work in motion, 
if not to make the exercise of it respectable. Certainly 
this appears to be the feeling among the guild itself. 
Nay, it may be said safely that, generally speaking, the 
successful writers of polite literature in our day, among 
ourselves, regard its merchantable quality not merely as 
one fair criterion, but as the only practical test, of its 
real excellence. 

Perhaps, then, it would be considered impertinent, if 



344 & UMINA TIONS. 

not unkind, to ask the literary fraternity why that 
common class of so-called " cheap literature " which 
they hold in such contempt (next to the works of 
amateurs) so often brings the writer of it the largest 
revenue ? It does seem, however, to the skeptical, a 
little inconsistent for the ambitious professional author 
to exalt the critical acumen of the purchasing public as 
infallible, at one breath, and to contemn it as undis- 
criminating, or fond of husks only, at another! Neverthe- 
less the suggestion would be unavailing, however keen its 
satire or logic. The writer who can sell his manuscript 
to a printer, at whatever price, cannot conceal easily a 
self-congratulatory disdain for his brother author, whose 
products are found to be unmarketable with current 
publishers, irrespective of what may be the intrinsic 
worth of either. Perhaps, however, in fairness, one 
ought to admit the probability of better work often being 
produced, where an author is in need of money, and 
believes the best way for him to get it is by writing a 
really meritorious book, suitable for the needs of the 
public he expects will buy it. 

Amateur writing usually is treated with undisguised 
derision and openly scoffed for crudeness, as well by the 
critic as by professional author. They both appear 
to regard such work, also, as an unauthorized invasion of 
the lawful territory of the latter ; — an interference with 
vested rights and a low attempt to snatch the bread 
from deserving mouths. Indeed, this odium seems to 
affect contageously even the popular taste. The public 
itself does not now relish such volunteer productions 
because of their peculiar flavor — so unlike that of the 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 345 

common supplies furnished to the regular trade for the 
ordinary market. 

When a man, who has given his best endeavors to 
benefit others, finds his advances met with coldness, or 
his beneficence rejected with scorn, his benevolence is 
apt to recoil. His philanthropy begins to freeze and he 
is in danger of growing cynical. Yet there may be still 
a sufficient motive for authorship, even if the writer do 
not expect publication. It is truer now than when Lord 
Bacon said it, that writing maketh an " exact man." 
And it is well for one who thinks, or even fancies he 
thinks, to write much, and perhaps often, merely for the 
sake of formulating his ideas. He can test their accu- 
racy to his own eye and ear, by putting them in definite 
shape ; and, by this species of self-education, give both 
precision to his notions and clearness to his mode of 
expression. 

If, however, our amateur writer shall be found covet- 
ing the spur of a pecuniary reward, as necessary to prick 
the sides of his intent, let him ponder the words of one of 
the " profession, " who inherits, perhaps, the most honored 
literary name among us, and whose own merit, as w r ell 
as experience, doubtless abundantly qualify him to speak. 
Not long ago Julian Hawthorne took the public into his 
confidence as follows : — 

" Five hundred dollars a year for a successful 
novel! How many of our authors make twice that? 
How many ten times as much ? How many twenty 
times as much ? I will engage to entertain at dinner, 
at a round table five feet in diameter, all the American 
povelists who make more than a thousand dollars. 



346 R UMINA TIONS. 

a year out of the royalty on any one of their novels, 
and to give them all they want to eat and drink, and 
three of the best cigars apiece afterward, and a hack 
to take them home in ; and I will agree to forfeit a 
thousand dollars to the Home for Imbeciles if twenty- 
five dollars does not liquidate the bill and leave enough 
to buy a cloth copy of each of the works in question, 
with the author's autograph on the fly-leaf. One hack 
would be sufficient, and would allow of their putting up 
their feet on the seat in front of them." 

Contemporary Reputation. 

Only a few authors, among poets and other writers 
of polite letters, can expect rightfully to achieve both 
contemporary reputation and enduring fame. Of course 
this is the ideal, and perhaps the hope, of nearly all — yet 
how seldom attained. Most successful literary aspi- 
rants for public recognition are compelled, either by the 
measure of their abilities, or by force of circumstances, 
to choose between the two. It will happen generally 
that those who possess the large capacity to produce such 
literary work, as appeals to a universal taste or judg- 
ment, will look beyond the factitious or accidental pecu- 
liarities of the day. Seeking only a limited contemporary 
audience, they will address themselves to human sym- 
pathy in its wider phases, and to such of its moods as 
probably will endure beyond the vicissitudes, vagaries, 
and special demands of the immediate time. And, 
although necessity may sometimes divert them from 
these loftier aims, to "meaner things," yet ? even then 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 347 

truth usually vindicates herself. Such ill-begotten work 
will, for the most part, fail to accomplish either purpose. 
Good sense cannot gracefully, or even profitably, wear 
the fool's motley. Indeed, an author's unquestioning 
earnestness, sincerity, or faith in the intrinsic merit, 
though supposititious, of his own literary work (however 
flimsy or absurd in fact) appears to be the indispensable 
condition precedent to its popular success. 

Society is always undergoing a process of change ; — 
whether progressing towards a higher ideal, or not. 
Those who glow with an invincible desire to give to the 
world the light they feel they possess — if that light be 
kindled with the spark of what men rightfully call genius 
— will find sometimes their prophetic eyes opened upon 
a horizon stretching far beyond the narrow precincts of 
the present day. They will see unavoidably also some- 
thing, deep down in the essential nature of things about 
them, more than meets the common eye. If true to 
themselves, and honest with the real public, they will, 
nevertheless, speak sincerely despite the fact that the 
current world will not always understand, or patiently 
listen to, them. They may have a limited number of 
hearers, and perhaps a few followers ; but their works 
will generally prove to be a stumbling-block to most 
men. They will have seldom much honor in their own 
country, or among their own people ; — who will possibly 
crucify them, as they did poor Shelley. 

Indeed, this victim of unpopularity knew painfully, yet 
prophetically, well whereof he spoke, when, in his De- 
fence of Poetry he said : — " No living poet ever arrived 
at the fulness of his fame, The jury which sits in judg- 



348 R UMINA TIONS. 

ment upon a poet, belonging as he does to all time, must 
be composed of his peers ; it must be empanelled by 
time from the selectest of the wise of many generations." 

There are others, however, who, either by reason of 
weaker wing, or less lofty aspiration, or because tempted 
by the seductive sweetness of popular applause, or per- 
haps by the desire or need of money, will prefer to seize 
the pleasures of the present hour, and risk the chances 
of finding more lasting repute without painful sacrifice. 
These are the popular authors of the day, whose names 
are in so many contemporary mouths, and whose utter- 
ances, by the contagion of imitation and iteration, 
become for a time household words among an undis- 
criminating multitude. 

Thus far mention is made of only two grand classes : 
yet each has many subdivisions — the extremes of this 
division being widely asunder. It may also be added 
that, although members of the same guild, they often 
look upon each other's work as deserving of no little 
contempt. In which oblique view, it may sometimes 
fortuitously happen that neither is quite mistaken. 

There are always besides, a few of the fortunate chil- 
dren of nature, whose capacities are so full, and so well- 
rounded, that they combine the merits of both classes. 
There are men richly endowed with the gifts of genius 
as well as talent, who, although sweeping up towards an 
illimitable empyrean with a sustained flight and tireless 
wing, can yet walk with easy composure upon the ground, 
amid the ordinary haunts of men. Such writers often 
speak from a sort of double consciousness. While in 
Jiearty accord with the common mind of their own day, 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 349 

yet, with an insight that seems more spiritual than human, 
they penetrate so far into the essence of things as to 
anticipate, seemingly, thoughts and evolutions of a 
later age. 

This notion, in the abstract, may appear to savor of 
the marvellous, or at least to be purely fanciful. But 
the mention of the prophetic soul of Shakespeare is pre- 
sumably enough to save one from the charge of absurdity 
in uttering it. To illustrate by a single example, among 
many in the same opulent author ; — where does mod- 
ern psychology — whether normal or morbid — find its ad- 
vanced ideas better expressed, or more fit language for 
its intricate discoveries, than in the soul-analysis of Mac- 
beth or of Hamlet ? 

Literary Popularity. 

Whether the aim of a belles-lettres author be to in- 
struct, or merely to amuse, in either case, of course, his 
prosperity will depend much upon keeping the cordial 
good-will of his readers. Wit can always entertain, and 
sometimes may teach wisely. Yet it will often bite 
shrewdly, and have a quality liable to put reader and 
writer in personal antagonism. We may admire the wit, 
yet hate the author. Readers, especially women, even 
when bad in themselves if that be possible, usually like 
straightforward honesty and kindness of heart in an au- 
thor. Wit often, and humor sometimes, takes the form 
of indirect, and even malicious, slander of individuals or 
mankind in general. Sarcasm and irony are among the 
easiest attainable methods of producing the appearance 



350 £ UMINA TIONS. 

of wit or humor, and therefore most tempting to those 
striving for the effect, or the reputation, of either. These 
cynical devices are so employed mostly by those to whom 
nature has given least original creative power in such 
direction. 

To raise a laugh at the expense of the feelings of a 
fellow-being, or to shock the prejudices or sense of pro- 
priety of another, may produce the semblance of the 
effect of wit or humor. Yet intrinsically these may be 
nothing more than an insult, or a coarse offence against 
the common and usually well-heeded rules of social in- 
tercourse. The first result of such a breach of good 
manners, generally will be to tickle the ear of a thought- 
less multitude. But the reaction, in reflecting minds, 
produces the feeling of a sort of self-degradation, and 
a dislike of the producer of such disturbance of our 
mental composure. We soon see how easy it is to be 
malignant, and how cheap to utter what a decent respect 
for the graces and proprieties of life forbids to be 
spoken. Surely, even if slowly, the author and his work 
finally will sink together, smothered by a merited 
contempt for both. 

Infelicity of Authors. 

It is an unpleasant fact — obvious in the annals of most 
human families — that among those who possess the high- 
est and most susceptible capacity for social enjoyment, 
there is usually the least amount of real happiness. This 
word seems by common consent to have reference gener- 
ally to such even-conditioned state of being, or content, 



AUTHOR AND ARTIST. 35 1 

as finds its earthly consummation in a well-balanced, 
well-proportioned, domestic circle ; — w T here affection and 
benevolence, self-restraint and self-respecting modera- 
tion are the ruling influences. It is hard to say precisely, 
or in particular, what each one ought to bring into such 
a little community, in order to contribute his proper quota 
to the common welfare. Yet it is quite easy to tell what 
every one ought to leave outside, or to keep in severe 
subjection, if not under total repression. 

Among these latter may be named egotism, self-conscious- 
ness, self-pity, and morbid emotionalism or sentimentality. 
Perhaps, more than all, is that excess or abuse of the faculty 
of imagination which too rapidly, or too gloomily, forecasts 
the future. This dominating ideality of a certain class 
of persons — constantly seeking for perfection while analyz- 
ing character or conduct — generally overlooks what is 
really good in others or perhaps what is bad in them- 
selves. It fastidiously cavils at almost everything 
human, because not absolutely in keeping with its own 
ideal standard. All of these traits (to which, however, 
the world owes so much for the sweetly sad poetry and 
exquisite art that melt or delight the soul) although 
sounding, for good or evil, the deepest wells of human 
feeling, are among the least desirable elements of 
ordinary social life. 

Unfortunately it happens that, among mere men-of- 
letters — who possess in greater or less degree the char- 
acteristics of genius — these barbed torments of social 
existence prevail to a disagreeable extent. Saddest of 
all too, such favorites of the gods usually have the 
smallest capacity for self-control or self-subjection ; and 



3 5 2 £ UMINA TIONS. 

are apt to be the children of impulse, or the sport of too 
many irrepressible demons of social disturbance. 

It is small wonder then, that this class — whose consti- 
tutions are composed of, or highly charged with, such 
ill-regulated and explosive ingredients as are constantly 
putting their possessors out of harmony with themselves 
as well as others — should soon reach a condition of 
chronic irritation. Genus irritabile. Whenever brought 
into such close social contact as to act and be acted upon 
by their fellow-beings — to the restraint of their fanciful 
code of personal liberty — they are prone, in the end, to 
bring reproach and misery upon themselves, either by 
extravagant exactions, or by outbursts of exacerbated 
temper, in their impotent conflict with what, after all, 
may be imaginary mischiefs. 

When a man or woman once enters upon a crusade 
against fancied wrongs, in the domestic circle, the first 
thing usually done is to forget all past benefits and pres- 
ent good ; next to ignore all self-deficiencies ; then — 
abandoning self-restraint — to exaggerate every semblance 
of evil out of all proportion with its due significance even 
if real ; and, finally, to shut his eyes to the obvious conse- 
quence of attempting to regulate, by officious inter-med- 
dling, the private conduct or secret opinions of others. 
It is not difficult to see that the bower of love soon be- 
comes a tangled waste, where this spirit of discontent 
reigns supreme ; and every poisonous herb finds congenial 
aliment in the rank soil. 




CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 

What 's yet in this, 
That bears the name of life ? 

Measure for Measure. 



Egoism : The Battle of Life. 

Be thine own home and in thyself dwell ; 

Inn anywhere ; continuance maketh hell. 

And seeing the snail, which everywhere doth roam, 

Carrying his own home still, still is at home, 

Follow (for he is easy-paced) this snail, 

Be thine own palace or the world 's thy jail. 

Donne. 




ONCE read — I know not where — these two 
lines, purporting to be translated from one 
of Goethe's writings : — 

The art of life is easily attained ; 

Trust in yourself, and you the whole have gained. 

Unlike most oracular maxims they express more than a 
partial truth ; but like many others this one presupposes 
some practical sagacity to comprehend its full meaning. 
23 353 



354 A UMINA TIONS. 

What should be one's chief purpose in life — what the art 
to accomplish it ? What is meant by trusting in one's 
self, for the pursuit of it ? 

When a virile man has arrived at some positive degree 
of nearness to maturity of his intellectual faculties, if he 
be self-possessed, he naturally asks himself : — " What am 
I ? Wherefore am I here ? How am I related to the 
rest of mankind ? What are my necessities, limitations, 
and capabilities ? What must I do, or leave undone ? 
What can I do ? What may I not do ? What should be 
the main endeavor I ought to set before me in order to 
accomplish the object of my creation, so far as I can 
comprehend it ? By what method can I best put myself 
in the way of most effectually exercising all my power, 
natural or acquired, in the pursuit of what I shall aim at ? " 

Inasmuch as each individual has a character and cir- 
cumstances largely peculiar to himself — by the ancients 
often reckoned as fate — necessarily, self-study is essential 
to judicious self-management. A desire for self-develop- 
ment lies at the bottom of the primal law of intellectual 
being. The body ordinarily grows to its normal shape 
and stature without much factitious aid. Nature usually 
takes care of that. We shall need to do little else than 
follow her common promptings — giving her a fair chance, 
and thwarting her no more than social exigencies compel. 
With the mind, however, the case is different. Here the 
freedom of choice is greater. Although we have many 
limitations, natural and artificial, yet within their bound- 
aries the area is vast, and the option to occupy is left 
largely to ourselves. Upon our own election, to a great 
degree, depends the result. The peculiar duty of each 



COtfCEkNWG LIFE AND DEA TH. 35$ 

man to himself being self-evolution, from the necessity of 
the case, he must find within himself the chief arbiter of 
his destiny. Self-development is the art of life, and self- 
trust is the key to self-development. Position, place, 
power, reputation, popularity, fame, are but modes of 
expression of self. 

The thing to do is to work out into external act one's 
theory of self, as one of the forces, or an atom among the 
forces, of the moral universe. How shall this fairly be 
done, if one do not trust in himself ? To do otherwise is 
to be a puppet. Only in this way man can be really a 
free agent. If he trust in himself he has a fixed centre 
of motion, about which always to revolve. Hence he 
shall have consistency of character ; and, perhaps, evolu- 
tionary, as well as expanding, growth. If he make his 
way, his path will be suited to his capabilities and his 
opportunities. His life will be simple and sincere ; — 
always building upon its own foundation. But if he do 
not trust in himself, he will be like a disabled ship that 
has lost her reckoning ; or the anchor and rudder of 
which are wanting. He will be, at the mercy of the winds 
and waves of opinion. He will be the victim of circum- 
stances — variable as the moon. His conduct will lack 
continuity or coherence. He will have no mental quie- 
tude — no repose of character. Lacking self-poise, his 
equilibrium will be always doubtful. Trusting in others, 
or drifting with the popular current, or moved by chance 
or by designing external influence, he may be false to 
himself and to every one around him. You cannot count 
upon him until you know from what quarter the strongest 
alien force shall be brought to bear upon his vacillating 



356 R UMINA T/OATS. 

centre. Day by day he will grow more cowardly, more 
doubtful of himself— and indeed of everything else. 
While self-trust makes a character stronger, the want of 
it makes one weaker and weaker, until all manliness fades 
out of the composition. 

When men are so feeble that they rely upon others in- 
stead of themselves, the best object of their existence, as 
affecting the race, is not attained. Except as slaves, to 
hew wood and draw water, in this view, they might as well 
not have been born. Besides this subserviency defeats 
itself. Although it be the resource of weakness, cowar- 
dice, or indolence, yet gradually it increases each one 
of these infirmities, until finally self-action, in thought 
or deed, becomes painful. Mere obedience to the will of 
others may bring satiety, disgust, or perhaps despair, to 
those worthy of superior lives. 

Beware of placing unlimited confidence in others. 
There are sometimes — though rarely — tried men and 
women in whom we may trust very widely in some matters ; 
but one should never quite let the cord, by which to hold 
them in check, pass out of his hand. It is like riding on 
horseback ; the man who wholly trusts his horse surely 
sometime gets a fall. In some exigencies the most abso- 
lute confidence in others is a signal merit ; but these 
cases are, at the least, exceptional. They are, rather, 
striking instances of trusting in one's own judgment con- 
cerning the special fitness of another for helping one to 
encounter a particular emergency. 

One likewise must avoid the mistake, and miserable 
policy, of distrusting others too much. As a man should 
be slow to distrust his own power to accomplish what he 



CONCERNING LIFE AND BE A TH. 357 

undertakes, yet may well doubt the extent of his skill and 
knowledge, in the choice of means ; so on the contrary, 
while he may and should be wary of putting all his faith 
in the strength or will of others to aid him, still he may 
be justified often in thoroughly confiding in their skill or 
knowledge. 

It is a good old practical rule to trust in others only by 
degrees — little by little— letting confidence, if it may, 
grow by proof and experience. One may treat those in 
whom he thus confides, as a judicious man deals with his 
memory. He may trust that faculty a good deal experi- 
mentally, and it will generally grow in strength by such 
indulgent treatment. But when it once plays him a trick, 
and fails him in an emergency, he learns its fallibility, and 
becomes cautious how he again entrusts vital matters to 
its keeping alone, without some artificial ally. 

Assuredly one can do but little in this world without 
great assurance of one's ability to accomplish what is 
undertaken. The faint-hearted proverbially fail, notwith- 
standing means and opportunities. Indeed, mere physical 
courage often seems to lack the spirit and fire necessary 
for difficult achievements. Yet is nothing so sure to in- 
volve defeat of purpose, and waste of life, as excessive 
self-confidence, without discipline of faculties and recog- 
nition of mortal limitations, in respect to ability, resource, 
circumstance, and time. 

To begin with, one should push his energies chiefly 
toward such practical aims and purposes as he may hope 
reasonably to accomplish. More than that is wasteful 
or slothful. How large a portion of life often is consumed 
in finding out what one may do, as well as in training the 



35^ 7? UMINA TIONS. 

natural powers to adapt them to its performance. And 
even after careful examination of what is within the scope 
of our capacity, how comparatively little do we find it 
reasonable to expect we may achieve in one brief life. 

A consolation of the ambitious lover of mankind lies in 
the fact that, as he can begin his work where his prede- 
cessors have laid it down, so his successors may take up 
his unfinished task, and push it on even beyond his 
extreme expectations. In other words, although the 
individual be but a temporary atom, nevertheless to great 
natures it is a solace that the race is a perpetuity. 

Most men seem to drop into chance places in the world, 
do what falls to their lot, avoid what seems harmful, eat, 
drink, and sleep according to custom, and are happy if 
they may live and die peacefully. There are, however, 
many who feel impelled to construct their own fortunes, 
to create their own spheres, and to subject themselves to 
their surroundings only as they are modified by their own 
acts ; — perpetually striving to obtain the most and lose 
the least that the opportunities of this mortal existence 
afford. 

The art of life — dealing, as it does, with so many ele- 
ments or circumstances that are either insurmountable, 
or controlling unless personally mastered — still presents 
to each of us this double problem ; — what it is desirable 
to do, and what to avoid. These must be subordinated, 
of course, to what is possible to do, and what we may 
escape. In the last two propositions also lies the test of 
the strength, as by the first two are found the quality, of 
a man. By his election will be involuntarily betrayed his 
intrinsic and native character. As the swine goes to the 



CONCERNING LIFE AND BE A TH. 359 

mire, so the eagle soars to the skies. Yet one basely in- 
clined, may sometimes be set on — through education and 
other favorable circumstances — to work toward purity 
and elevation, by self-discipline and virtuous emulation ; 
while another, of noble instincts, from bad example, or un- 
toward events — such as early discouragement and the like 
— may be led to turn a deaf ear to his higher impulses, 
and lapse into a low condition. 

A man often finds within himself two opposite tenden- 
cies ; one toward self-reliance, and another a yearning 
for social sympathy or support and approbation. Neither 
must be ignored. As he is strong or weak, unless he 
invoke the aid of severe discipline, the one or the other 
— strength or weakness — will prevail and, as either pre- 
dominates, perhaps distort his character. 

Before the advent of Christianity the higher education 
of the soul led toward self-dependence. Mythology, 
like the laws of nature, was relentless in visiting the con- 
sequences of error and folly upon the head of the offender. 
Nemesis gave no encouragement to the hope of pardon, 
through either a mediator or repentance for misdoing. 
As the tree fell so it lay. Such a system contributed 
doubtless to make the strong stronger ; — however it might 
tend to destroy or debase the weak by despair. The 
most fit survived and flourished, while the weaker sank 
in the scale of humanity to become mere servile toilers, 
or butterfly pleasure-seekers of the hour ; — or to join the 
general throng of the wretched who quickly perish. 

On the other hand, Christian theology makes life more 
lovely by offering to the penitent believer a safe retreat 
frorn the consequences of wrong-doing. Mercy and hope 



360 R UMINA TIONS. 

become important factors in life. These gather strength 
from mere association of men together. Social sympathy 
makes many burdens more easy to carry— while waiting 
for the benign interference of a kind Providence to take 
away, or modify, the penalty of evil-doing. 

The inclination of Christian civilization is, however, 
inevitably less toward self-reliance than that of the older 
theologies. The ideal man — as a self-dependent arbiter 
of his own destiny and fortune — was (humanly speaking) 
doubtless higher, stronger, and clearer than he is under 
our own merciful system of faith. There was a tendency 
to evolve more and more strength, in the habit of look- 
ing only to self as the prime force in character, and a 
relentless master with whom to settle for delinquencies. 
But faith in absolution by repentance, and a habit of 
leaning upon others for help, or seeking their sympathy, 
condolence, or charity, seem as steadily to lead toward 
debility of character. For however more amiable this 
system may make human association (except as it may 
elevate us, by devout aspiration, to live acceptably to our 
Divine Master) it inevitably tends to keep us gradually 
sinking to a level below what a true self-reliant manhood 
— aside from spiritual grace — ought to set before itself as 
its loftiest ideal. Happy are they who, by native force of 
character, can unite the hardy stoicism or heroic virtue 
of the pagan with the pious graces of the Christian. 
That, indeed, should be the sub-divine image a man of our 
day ought to set before himself. 

True self-conduct, apart from all outside influences, 
should rest primarily upon the tripod of self-knowledge, 
self-reverence, and self-control. The first is hard to 



CONCERNING LIFE AND BE A TH. 36 1 

attain, as it requires study from without as well as from 
within — of others as well as of ourselves — to learn one's 
relations to his fellow-men and to acquire knowledge of 
a standard by which to measure one's own proportions. 
Time and experience alone can make such study result 
in anything valuable. Self-reverence will come, or delay 
its coming, in proportion as our higher or better nature 
is obeyed, or violated and abused: — wherever her prompt- 
ings are high, pure, and good, and accordingly as evil 
inclinations are suppressed or subdued or allowed to go 
unchecked. It will manifest itself in many ways, both 
great and small ; — in an unfaltering consciousness of per- 
sonal worth, as well as in a kind of fastidiousness in 
respect to personal surroundings, manners, and social in- 
tercourse. It will keep the heart, mind, and spirit clean 
and sweet by a gentle necessity ; and this will preserve 
the body pure, because that is the temple of the spirit 
dwelling within it. The notion of self-reverence will 
make a man careful in the choice of his company. But 
above all, with strong natures, stands self-control — what 
Lowell sweetly calls "clear-eyed self-restraint. ,, This is 
the balance-wheel of a perfected character, without which 
all else is of little permanent worth. 

If a man have neither the opportunity, nor the noble 
ambition, to strive to live for others, at least he ought to 
try to live for himself — to develop rationally the faculties 
and capabilities of enjoyment of which he is possessed — 
and to seek to reap the fruits and gather for his own 
gratification the flowers that grow by the wayside through 
life. In short he ought so to plan his journey, and 
methodize his time, as neither to waste material nor miss 



362 R UMINA TIONS. 

opportunity of achieving what seems to him best for 
himself alone. Alas, how few are even so sagaciously 
prudent. The mass of mankind seem to live neither for 
themselves, nor for others. They live by force of nature, 
without the intelligent direction of their human will — 
that is to say, unmoved by any vivifying consciousness of 
the possession of a soul. They live and die, as does the 
animal or the vegetable. They exist merely for the 
pleasure and business of the hour, without any method 
leading upward, except as may be necessary to provide 
for the ordinary sequence of common events. So far as 
respects a plan for the conduct of their interior-life, or a 
theory for the development of what spiritually is within 
the compass of human will or endeavor, they are as in- 
sensible as blocks of stone. 

Amid these material, superficial, pleasure-seeking days, 
when I see so many young people around me, brought up 
at haphazard, careless of the meaning or purpose of their 
existence, with no habits of thrift, or prudence, I wonder 
how they will get through that battle of life, which their 
New England forefathers — with all their discipline and 
training by poverty, privation, self-dependence, and un- 
stinted work — found to be so hard. For a time I am 
puzzled and confounded with the apprehension of disaster 
that seems to me sure to overtake them, when the conflict 
comes and they shall be found to be too poorly equipped 
for the task before them. But again I reflect there are 
divers ways of getting through the world ; and that sonre 
move smoothly and easily — although others find a more 
troubled transit — merely by the chances of accident. 
Indeed, some are pulled through, some barely struggle 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEA TH. 



363 



through, and some are apparently kicked through ; while 
others never reach their normal end, but drop by the 
wayside, seemingly born, and sent into this world, merely 
to keep alive the hard lesson that although death may be 
peace, life is war. 





II 



LIFE AND DEATH. 

Ampliat setatis spatium sibi vir bonus ; hoc est 
Vivere bis, vita posse priore frui. 



Martial. 



Love of Life. 




HEN a contemplative man, in the full enjoy- 
ment of youth and health, looks upon the 
grand or beautiful objects of nature, in their 
cheerful serenity or lovely unconsciousness 
of human feebleness and sorrow, he clings to life, and is 
sometimes filled with a sense of joy that inspires the 
desire to live here forever. But as life passes on into age ; 
when one considers how much his dependence for happi- 
ness has been upon social sympathy — the ties of affection 
or the communion of associations with sincere friends ; 
when he recalls the pleasures and troubles he has 
shared with dear companions, and how many of those 
he has loved have gone before him — taking with them 
most of his precious moral resources — he begins to feel 
content soon to follow. As Willis finely says in his 
Absalom : — 

364 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEA TH. 365 

How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
By its light heed of human sufferings, 
That it was fashioned for a happier world. 

Scope of Life. 

What is the pith of a human life ? Some seem to think 
it is enough for a man to breathe, to move, to rest, to 
sleep — to enjoy the pleasures of the hour and to drift 
aimlessly and unconsciously to the grave — gay, careless, 
and, if possible, joyous and happy. If every one had, and 
could keep, perfect health of body and mind, with wise 
habits — because only simple wants existed — and if society 
could stand still, with all human needs fully provided for, 
this would seem to be almost a complete response to the 
primal voice of nature. Such is or was nearly the happy 
condition of some semi-savage, and of some insular, peo- 
ples. It is the normal life too of fortunate childhood. 
But when the mind, impelled by civilization, has out- 
grown the simple demands of the body, we imperceptibly 
take upon us a new or other life. Mind or spirit predom- 
inates over matter ; we begin to recognize a divinity 
within us, and truly to live. Doubtless there are many 
who never much outgrow the simple traits of their child- 
ish days. But most thinking people, either by native 
activity and increment of brain, or by sorrow, suffering, 
consequent introspection and self-recognition, at some 
time, begin to wake up and to ask themselves — who or 
what and why they are, whence they came, and whither 
they are going. 

I am hemmed within a somewhat narrow circle, by the 
laws of nature. I cannot add one cubit to my stature. 



366 R UMINA TIONS. 

Next there are the laws of society under which I live ; 
and, whether right or wrong, in the abstract or under 
other supposable circumstances — although they be to me 
perhaps unwelcome as prison bars — yet I may not 
attempt with impunity to violate them. There are more- 
over, the special impediments peculiar to my individual 
self ; — such as pertain to my social condition and my per- 
sonal opportunity. Besides, are other distinctive circum- 
stances, that make my individual self to be specifically 
me, and not the double of any other person whomsoever. 
There is, however, an almost endless variety of petty 
elements of environment — not unlike, in their effect, the 
bands the Lilliputians tied upon Gulliver — that I may 
either overcome, or be passively subject to accordingly 
as I curb, or yield to, a love of ease and pleasure, or as 
my energy of character, force of will, ambition, thorough- 
ness, or persevering determination shall be strong or 
weak, persistent or desultory. Within my limitations, 
only as I develop in consciousness, power, thought, action, 
self-restraint, and consequent rational enjoyment of my 
being, do I actually live. Otherwise I only subsist ; — 
happy perhaps as a spring-swallow, but breathing a life in 
all things unworthy of my opportunities. 

As therefore no one is absolutely free, but all are in 
comparative subjection, the variance in their conditions 
is only a difference in degrees of constraint. Men have 
indeed lived alone, in caves and forests, hoping to find 
there the surest method of securing unalloyed freedom ; 
but they have gained only another sort of restraint. They 
were so circumscribed by physical necessities — besides 
social isolation, which is itself a negative tyranny — they 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEA TH. 367 

had, in some respects, really less actual freedom in their 
solitude than when in society. 

We truly live only by virtue of thought, and reciprocity 
of moral, mental, and spiritual ideas. The personal ideas 
we most thoroughly encompass — perhaps all those we 
really do possess — come chiefly from what we do, and 
what we are, in ourselves. A man's life is to be measured 
by his experiences, inward as well as outward ; and he 
should never wholly regret them however disagreeable 
they may be, if he survive his wounds, and carry only 
their scars. These trials and proofs are soul-facts. From 
them alone do we derive or verify those mental, moral, 
and spiritual conceptions which are most thoroughly im- 
bedded in our consciousness, and make up our intrinsic 
character and present identity — however, from custom or 
policy, we may masquerade otherwise, before the world. 
These atoms of vivid personal experience compose all of 
our very selves. Whatever maxims of self-conduct we 
derive purely from the thoughts and history of others — 
no matter how useful as guides or auxiliaries — are still 
exotic. They never can be trusted wholly in the critical 
emergencies that may be encountered, by our own special 
nature, in the personal conduct of our individual lives. 

Value of Life. 

It is to little purpose we ask if life be worth the trouble 
or weariness of living. Being born without our choice, it 
is a law of our being that life shall be maintained by us. 
It is against nature, either to starve or to sicken volun- 
tarily — or, except through superstition or other infatua- 



368 R UMINA TIONS. 

tion, for normal physical life to take away itself. Here 
we are ; — and obviously out of accord with nature do we 
become when we inquire if it be worth our while to live. 
Whosoever finds himself in such a state of mind, as 
querulously to put that question to himself, may surely 
know that he is morally incompetent to answer it for him- 
self — either as witness or judge — by reason of his bodily 
or mental infirmity, or both. If he wishes for an honest 
verdict on the subject, he must seek it only outside of 
himself. Health desires life. It is as natural to live — 
barring hereditary disease, self-abuse, negligence, or acci- 
dent — to the full ordinary duration of life, as it is to die 
at the expiration of that period. The sense and sensibility 
of mankind in general seem likely to continue always 
sound on this subject. And the folly of those few, who 
call in question the value of existence here, may be fairly 
offset against the greed of those who estimate too greatly 
its advantages, above either the hope of immortality, or 
the nothingness of oblivion. 

The true inquiry for the anxious mind on this subject 
is : — What shall life accomplish ? Not in a narrow, nor 
merely particular and egoistic sense — for the wants and 
pleasures of existence usually appear to keep an ordinary, 
healthy man sufficiently occupied for the time, without 
much anxiety on his part about being truly philosophical, 
reasonable, or consistent. But rather, by a comprehensive 
view of all this world affords, let every man consider pro- 
foundly and answer for himself. Let him take into the 
calculation youth, middle-life, and old-age ; considering 
man both as an isolated individual, and as a member of a 
social and political organization, which in many respects 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEA TH. 3 6 9 

is the outgrowth of thousands of years in progressive 
evolutionary civilization ; as a son, a brother, perhaps a 
husband and a father ; as a sharer of the burdens and 
benefits of social and political methods appropriate to the 
period and country where his lot is cast, or he may choose 
his domicile ; as a not unimportant factor in the endless 
series of the generation of his race ; and as the possessor 
of attributes and faculties capable of producing and 
receiving their highest enjoyment by cultivation, prudent 
self-conduct and active, useful intercourse with his 
fellow-beings. What is his cue ? If there is no higher 
obligation in any other direction, obviously his first ob- 
ject in life should be to make the most of it, without 
detriment to himself or others. 

It is proverbially common to point to what is usually 
called happiness, as the chief aim of life. This should, 
however, rank rather as an incident than as the main 
object to be kept in view. To be happy is to be in 
accord with our circumstances and ideals ; to work under 
and in compliance with the laws of nature in all respects, 
as well as with the laws of our society — whether wise or 
unwise, natural or arbitrary, just or unjust — so long as we 
remain a part of such society. To be in conflict with 
these, in any material respect, will produce surely more 
or less unhappiness. To resist some of them may be 
deemed often by us necessary. Force, love, duty, interest, 
or pleasure may drive us into opposition, and may perhaps 
give us excuse, consolation, equivalent, or compensation 
for want of happiness ; — yet we shall lose it still the same. 

But there is something richer than mere personal hap- 
piness or pleasure to be sought for in striving to achieve 

24 



37° * UMINA TIONS, 

the best uses of this life. To develop to full equable 
expansion all our mental and moral faculties ; to choose 
with our best judgment — aided by the experience and 
forecast of others, and all the best lights we can focalize 
on the subject — the most efficient mode of exercising our 
abilities, in doing what seems best to each of us, in order 
to push on the work of improving the general welfare of 
the race to which we belong ; these seem to be the dic- 
tates of natural instinct, of right reason, and of good 
sense of the best of men. The larger the capabilities the 
greater the true enjoyment, when capacity is so filled ; 
just as the ox in a broad field is believed to find more 
enjoyment than the canary-bird in a cage — however 
ignorantly contented the latter may be with its narrow 
lot. 

Passage of Life. 

Perhaps the best common figure of speech, used to ex- 
press the ordinary notion of the passage of life, is that 
which calls it a journey. First, one should endeavor to 
provide in advance, from time to time, for such wants and 
emergencies as can be easily foreseen ; next, one should 
pursue the adventure as leading to some definite end. If 
one fall by the way, the casualty should be regarded with 
the same equanimity as an unavoidable termination of 
contemplated travel. The possibility of such a mis-ad- 
venture is of course a thing to be guarded against, so far 
as practicable, by fair precautions ; — not, however, to be 
exaggerated in prospect, so as to hinder one in the under- 
taking or the prosecution of the journey. 



CONCERNING LIFE AND BE A TH. 371 

The object proposed should be kept always in view, as 
something practically certain to be reached, if length of 
life be granted. When we approach the end of our 
journey we should prepare to lay aside our baggage, and 
be satisfied with the completion of our travels. It is an 
edifying spectacle to see a great thinker, an inventor, a 
scientific discoverer, or a grand actor in the drama of 
practical life, when warned of the approaching end, with- 
drawing from the highway of a public career and making 
haste to write his autobiography — a veracious journal of 
the incidents of his career — to completion, while the sands 
of life shall hold out. Yet what a disappointment such 
anticipatory frank productions sometimes seem to bring 
to those foiled jackals of literature, whose apparent 
delight is to desecrate newly made graves. 

Approach of Old Age. 

Passing from the extreme of middle-life to old-age 
usually resembles less the gradual descent over a smooth 
incline than it does the going down the steps of a terrace, 
or the series of rounds upon a ladder. We often seem to 
pause upon each level ; sometimes to rest or perhaps to 
gaze contemplatively or carelessly around about us ; — 
sometimes to turn toward self-introspection, or perhaps 
to give an absorbing attention to some external matter 
that may chance to interest us greatly. When we next 
look up, and out upon the world around us, we feel as if 
that world had moved on, while we had stood still. We 
discover that either our horizon has contracted percep- 
tibly or our vision is impaired, and we ourselves are not 



3 7 2 * UMINA TIONS. 

what we were. We are conscious our altitude has sunken 
a step. We may generalize more ; but we particularize 
less, for old-age is coming upon us. 

In youth naturally we are rising ; and so in middle-age, 
as life moves onward, our eyes sweep over a continually 
broadening expanse of the moral universe ; while we 
linger fondly upon each height to which we attain. We 
are continually gaining ground, and we rejoice in the 
frequent discovery of fresh acquisitions made of new ter- 
ritory, for the mind or heart to dwell in as their home. 
But when old-age is creeping over us, we are as constantly 
made aware of these recurring periods of slow deteriora- 
tion ; — the loss, it may be, of some power or even some 
cherished possession of personal consciousness, upon 
which we always had set a value before. This latter 
retro-gradation of stand-point appears to be a kindly pro- 
vision of nature ; — perhaps designed to give us time in 
which to reconcile ourselves to the misfortune of one 
deprivation in this mortal career, before we are called 
upon to bear another. In this manner our sensibilities 
may gradually harden ; so that when the command comes 
for us to yield up our all, we may have but little left that 
shall cause us much reluctance to part with it ; — and the 
more cheerfully we shall give back to exacting Nature 
the poor residuum of her temporary loan. 

Senility. 

When at length by wear of time and loss of mental, 
moral, and physical activity, a man reaches that condition 
of existence in which he prefers to live quite alone ; when 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEA TH. 373 

he no longer feels the need of fellowship or human sym- 
pathy — and lacks that desire for human association, 
which is the significant craving of a healthy heart and 
brain, or the soul-ache of the involuntarily isolated, that 
makes the whole world akin — then he begins to die ; — if 
indeed he be not dead already. This impairment of the 
moral functions unmistakably fits him, through diminished 
sensibility and loss of the power of recuperation, for the 
great and final change that shall come when he is destined 
to pass out entirely from the company and sight of his 
fellow-men. It seems, alas, to be a necessary part of the 
order and complete sequence of mortal personality, in a 
man who lives out the full measure of his days, according 
to the course of nature, and who dies of extreme old-age 
" sans everything/' 

Death. 

Although it be true, as Rowe says, that 

Death is the privilege of human nature, 

certainly but few are eager to claim it. Nevertheless, it 
must not be overlooked, by those inclined to grieve for 
themselves, at the brittleness of life, and the inevitable- 
ness of the fact of death itself, that it is but a transition. 
For we go into the dark, as we came out of it, and when 
it has happened we shall know nothing more of it here ; 
— so surely does the antidote accompany this bane of 
their content. And there is this cardinal distinction, 
between loss of life and every other deprivation, that by 
death — rationally considered — both possessor and pos- 
session are extinguished at the same instant. 



3 74 & VMINA T/OATS. 

The end of life may come, when we are full of infirmi- 
ties, when pain predominates over pleasure, or masters 
even philosophic passivity ; and when the catastrophe, 
like a welcome friend, shall put an end to intolerable 
evils. The actual loss of life to ourselves, merely, is in 
itself an immaterial concern ; — usually unpleasant to con- 
template by anticipation, especially for those in health 
and the enjoyment of pleasure or happiness, terrible 
sometimes as an impending calamity — but absolutely 
nothing in reality when accomplished. In itself — from 
a rational point of view — it involves no practical harm 
to our mere conscious personality. The instinct for a 
preservation of life at all hazards and under all circum- 
stances, however valuable, is blind and unreasoning : — 
although doubtless part of a wise design of nature for the 
preservation of the race. If, as we trust, our personal 
consciousness is immortal, then by death we reach the 
sooner that permanent state of being wherein either the 
eagerness of hope shall be swallowed up in fruition of 
enjoyment, or we may expect at least to live for some 
real, enduring purpose, and confidently to look forward 
to seeing all our aims ultimately accomplished — since the 
inexorable limitations of time and mortal personal envi- 
ronment must be forever unknown. But if, on the con- 
trary, this life shall involve and embrace all we ever can 
be, as individuals, what doth it matter to our personal 
identity when it shall end ; — since if ourselves be not, 
we can neither regret, nor suffer the loss. 

Nothing need now be said of a reasonable love of pro- 
longed life for the sake of the good one may do to others ; 
nor of a sorrow that may afflict the man who loves his 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH, 375 

fellow-men, when he apprehends his protecting arm, or 
liberal hand, shall be snatched away from those whose 
well-being may depend upon his superior strength or 
resources. Such an one, however, may find some higher 
consolation — as life ebbs away — through a modest con- 
sciousness of duty done, through a submissive recognition 
of the unchangeableness of the laws of nature, whose 
benefits he has shared, through the hope that other hands 
thereafter will he outstretched to clothe the naked or feed 
the hungry whom he has loved to cherish, and through a 
dominating confidence in the inexhaustibleness of the 
future ; — or briefly in what we call the boundless provi- 
dence of God. 

Broadly considered, our most afflicting view of death 
lies in the loss of matured intellectual power and mental 
or moral resources it may inflict upon mankind, in the 
world at large. Without reference to the idea of a future 
state — but looked upon physically and morally as a mat- 
ter purely personal — the cessation of a mere existence, 
consisting of only a capacity for suffering, often may be 
regarded as something to be desired by its possessor. Yet 
from a wide intellectual or impersonal view, to the sur- 
vivors, the death of a man has sometimes, at least, this 
one aspect of immeasurable sadness. 

Our whole life, if well-spent, must be an education. 
That it involves the prudent employment of an ordinary 
lifetime, even to learn the best method of making a wise 
use of a life, has become proverbial. At threescore and 
more at the least, if the higher intellectual faculties be 
not impaired by disease, accident, or imprudence, they 
may have become so informed and so disciplined — the 



376 



RUMINATIONS. 



eye of the mind so keen, discriminating, comprehensive, 
and judicial — that it will seem to be an unmitigated mis- 
fortune to the human race for their possessor to perish 
at the very acme of his usefulness. Nevertheless this 
appears to be the course of nature in all things — lavish 
waste, then superabundant reproduction. Life dies : 
long live Life ! 




III. 



AMENITIES OF OLD AGE. 



-a good old age, released from care, 



Journeying in long serenity away. 



Bryant. 




MAN is said to reach the grand climacteric at 
his sixty-third year — whensoever that critical 
period may arrive in the life of a woman. 
This is well enough, as a general rule. The 
exceptions, common though they be, are probably not 
numerous enough to disprove it. Nevertheless the adage, 
that a woman is as old as she looks and a man as old as 
he feels, is usually a better practical test of human vitality 
than the more scientific formula. 

But whatever old age may be in lexicology ; every one 
will know unmistakably when it comes to him individu- 
ally. Aside from the slackening of attention and mem- 
ory, or sluggishness of brain, there are certain signs of 
body and members — of touch and gait, of inelasticity of 
joint, limb, foot, and hand — that he who can no longer 
run will be compelled to read too clearly ; — as his physi- 
cal powers of endurance, resistance, and recuperation 
begin to weaken or fail. 

377 



378 RUMINATIONS. 

The obvious question for each one to put to himself is : 
What shall he do with it ? Shall he endeavor to shut his 
eyes to the palpable fact ? Shall he repine at its inevi- 
tableness ? Shall he simply reconcile himself, with philo- 
sophical inertia, to the unwelcome predicament ? Or shall 
he husband his own reserves of unhackneyed feeling, 
borrow by companionship something of hope and joy 
from his younger neighbor's excess, and draw from the 
world's great storehouse of amenities as much as he can 
of whatever he may lack within himself — for his after- 
math ? 

Time is a sovereign test of the spontaneousness, 
copiousness, soundness, and savor of a man's character. 
Animal spirits, the natural thirst for pleasure, the excita- 
tion of the passions (whether such as rule each passing 
hour, or those that steadily stimulate energy to prolonged 
effort for remote gains, moral, intellectual, or material) 
and probably more than all, the ordinary exigencies of 
social existence, will keep most minds sound and sweet — 
with little heed for the prudent accumulation and storing 
away, for a distant future, of spiritual wealth — while 
youthful elasticity and strength prevail. Nevertheless, 
sooner or later, satiety and even disgust are likely to over- 
take the superficial as well as such persons as are prone 
to be selfish, sour, or evil-minded. And, as Cicero ob- 
serves, those who have no resources within themselves 
for living well and happily, are liable to find every age 
burdensome ; while a discontented and ill-tempered dis- 
position will always be irksome. 

To be old is not necessarily to be a dotard or decrepit. 
Many men, now-a-days, reach even their fourscore years 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEA TH. 379 

and sometimes more, without finding life to become a 
sorrow, or the grasshopper of Ecclesiastes to be a burden. 
Although some powers of mind, as well as of body, have 
become feeble, or even atrophied, the capacity for enjoy- 
ment, through many others, may continue substantially 
unimpaired. 

Distrust and moroseness are always more or less of the 
nature of vices ; but they are not peculiarly the attributes 
of old age. Resembling the instincts of some of the 
lower animals, they may flourish even in the early spring 
of a mean disposition, and may poison the human blood 
at any time of life. 

But that often derided caution, which is natural to 
elderly persons, is discriminative, rather than general, in 
its nature and exercise. One may hesitate to give full 
credence to every interested appearance of verity, or to 
yield up his whole heart to each new-fledged solicitation. 
Yet, by the cultivated tolerance of his nature, by the 
broad charity of judgment that experience and patience 
have inculcated, and, more than all, by the comprehensive 
sweep of ripened reason, an old man may be inclined to 
even greater faith than middle-age has in the permanence 
of human virtue, and its expansion with the growth and 
development of the sociology of the race. Indeed, under 
ordinarily favorable circumstances, optimism, rather than 
pessimism, is naturally the grand outlook of the healthy 
mind in advanced years. 

Ennui, though "nameless in our language," as Byron 
says, is sometimes accounted among us one of the heavy- 
weights that oppress men as they reach the outer edge of 
their span of life. But that period has no monopoly of 



3 80 R UMINA TIONS. 

this peculiar source of misery. The difficulty that 
people of excessive leisure — when animated by no higher 
impulse than love of themselves — find in choosing inter- 
esting and pleasant employment, belongs to no particular 
period of life, and is a common cause of shipwreck of 
happiness at every date. 

It is a misfortune for some to give up wholly in late 
years the special occupation that has engaged all their 
early and more energetic days. Yet many have that 
breadth of understanding, that versatile capacity, that 
elasticity of intellect, that energy of hopefulness, which 
will enable them, at any time, to throw off old habitudes 
and enter upon a new pursuit. Others, too, have through 
life cherished a desire that the day might come when the 
sordid cares of business could be laid aside with prudence 
and some craving taste for higher and sweeter things — 
perhaps long baffled and thwarted — be gratified. For 
such men leisure has no terrors, whenever it may arrive, 
or however long it may last. 

But it is not necessary that even the ordinary man — 
when long years of useful toil have lifted him somewhat 
beyond the pressure of necessary care — should still be 
compelled to bear the irksomeness of uncongenial labor, 
in order to avoid a barren weariness of life. Though still 
engaged in practical business affairs, he may enjoy easily 
many of the pleasures, while escaping much of the wear 
and tear of the hard task-work of a younger day. He 
may methodize his time, and fill up his hours, so that 
each revolving day shall pass smoothly and happily. An 
old man need not worry over apprehended remote evil 
results. His concern with annoying details must also be 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEA TH. 38 1 

less than it was formerly, for such matters, demanding 
accuracy and despatch, naturally fall to the share of 
younger men. 

In the world, his place being now determined, he is no 
longer compelled to urge himself to make efforts merely 
for its establishment. Neither will any excessive exertion 
be expected of him. Consequently he will not suffer the 
dull or painful reaction from any extraordinary strain of 
his reserved powers. Philosophic calm may supersede 
irritating anxiety. By an almost divine social law, even 
haste is deemed unbecoming to the gravity of years. 
Verily herein grows a welcome hedge for an old man's 
graceful serenity. 

It is always hard to part by death with friends we have 
loved early and long. Painfully obvious is it that this 
misfortune befalls old-age with especial burdensomeness. 
It is too well recognized as a portion of the price to be 
paid for longevity. Nay, as life passes beyond middle- 
age, the frequent loss of merely familiar acquaintances 
presses the more heavily upon us. Each one is a fibre, 
more or less important, in some cord of precious asso- 
ciation. Once broken, the filaments seldom if ever 
reunite. 

In youth, friendships of the heart grow out of a com- 
munity of early associations, sympathetic inclinations, and 
the fellowship of unhackneyed feeling. In middle-age 
friendships of the mind continue to spring up from unity 
of interest, similarity of character, taste, or pursuit, till the 
number of them usually increases despite subtraction by 
death. But in old-age we generally lose the power to 
inspire, or even interest, the feelings or intelligence of our 



382 R UMINA TIONS. 

fresh acquaintances. This isolation would have been 
intolerable in the days of youth. It presses less heaviiy 
however as the sensibilities are dulled by time or the 
growth of comprehensiveness has made the mind more 
all-sufficient unto itself. Neither is it to be forgotten that 
while the scythe lays low the flowers, it also cuts up the 
noisome nettles that grow among them. Not unfrequently 
the tranquillity of declining years is sensibly enhanced by 
the loss oi our enemies ! 

Although, with increasing years, comes a decay of that 
hopefulness for the result of our own highest endeavors, 
which is the spur of manly minds to energetic and persist- 
ent action in the world's affairs, and which gives the chief 
zest to noble lives ; nevertheless, the hankering love of 
mere existence, and the fierce desire to achieve the com- 
mon prizes of the world — despite the struggle, the toil, 
the privation, the pain, the mental or moral anguish nec- 
essarily involved in the hot pursuit of such rewards— grow 
more feeble, until contentment, a crown-jewel of mortal 
happiness, comes more readily within our grasp. 

Now also arrives that unspeakable sense of self-satis- 
faction, which is the heritage of him only who has earned 
the never-too-much lauded, most sweet, recollection of a 
well-spent life. Pity it is that the good fame of declining 
years should suffer, in popular estimation, merely from 
the abusive epithets, and the deserved penalties, of those 
who, like Dr. Faustus, have discounted their prospects ! 
Our English Horace had studied well old London when 
he wrote : — 

See how the world its veterans rewards ! 
A youth of frolics, an old age of cards. 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 3^3 

We cannot, however, afford to quarrel with the Nemesis 
who, presiding at the birth of human society, has governed 
here — punishing mortals with her Rhadaman thine severity 
— at all times since. 

Perhaps the quality of mercy is strained enough, in 
these cases, by the enactment of that benign law of 
abused nature, which so commonly cuts off, immaturely, 
from the contrition of a bitter old-age, those who, in 
the hot gust of transitory pleasure, have wilfully violated 
those mental, moral, and physical obligations, which are 
essential to the tenure of protracted existence in nor- 
mal equilibrium. For indeed, the wholly innocent, and 
involuntary, sufferers from mere senile infirmity are 
rather an exceptional minority — perhaps generally pay- 
ing a debt due to the race, arising from an overdraft 
made by some departed spendthrift ancestor. At the 
least, however, we may trust that such blameless unfor- 
tunates will find their consolation through the divine 
promises of compensation in a future and more perfect 
world — where the mystery of pain shall be wholly unrid- 
dled. It would be indeed inexplicably sad if the victims 
of accidental misfortune should suffer also an atrophy of 
such a hope. 

But to those of better fortune, who have lived long in 
harmony with nature, a cheerful retrospection at the close 
of life is full of charm. For it is one of the precious 
traits of memory — worthy of frequent iteration — that pain 
and misery fade from the recollection far more easily than 
pleasure ; and, to the healthy-minded, remembered joy 
becomes much more vivid than the reminiscence of sorrow, 
as life slips away, 



384 £ UMINA TIONS. 

True it may be, as is commonly said, that the illu- 
sions of youth have for the most part now vanished. But 
it must not be forgotten that the apparently providential 
reasons for their continued existence have also ceased. 
Neither is it an unmixed evil to be no longer borne along 
on the wings of wilful fancy, or nourished by the decep- 
tive allurements of ill-grounded hope. Practical judg- 
ment now becomes a dominating factor in the character, 
and the inexplicable pleasure of being self-cheated loses 
its marvellous savor. One finds a solid gratification in 
contemplating both the lives of his fellow-men and many 
significant ethical subjects, as they are in reality — unmag- 
nified by the haze of dubiety, or unillumined by the gla- 
mour of fraudulent tradition. That confidence we once 
too readily gave to each individual, upon his own unsup- 
ported representation concerning himself, and that eager 
willingness to believe, upon imperfect evidence, what we 
wish to be true when affecting our own interest, steadily 
diminish. So also that hasty or inconsiderate action — 
perilling the fortune, happiness, or perhaps life, of others 
or ourselves, and undertaken without the guarantee of 
prudential foresight — gives place, in most cases, to a dis- 
passionate sagacity of conduct, which, if it sometimes lose 
chances in a lottery, may at the least save us from either 
a self-robbery, or a profitless contrition for having be- 
guiled our best friends to their ruin. 

It can scarcely be expected, however,that old age should, 
automatically and without some previous personal sacri- 
fice, bring comfort to every one. Those who have played 
and lost, or have squandered their patrimony of health 
and strength — wasting it in imprudence and excess, in- 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 385 

stead of reserving and storing their forces ; — they who 
have nourished ill weeds in the garden of their lives until 
the flowers are choked and have perished ; must look 
into a world stretching beyond this finite period for their 
hope of better things. They have chosen their alterna- 
tive ; and perhaps have had their reward. The hard law 
of discipline, necessary to preserve the continued pros- 
perity of the race, seems to require their wretchedness 
here should be suffered — at the least for the sake of ex- 
ample to their successors. 

Sad indeed, too, is the lot of those who must close their 
days overweighted with care, pinched by poverty, or 
steeped in sorrow, from no unvenial fault of their own, or 
in spite of a life-long effort to achieve competence and 
repose. The consolations of religion, or philosophy, 
have marvellous powers to soften the pillow of many so 
afflicted. With such auxiliaries we must leave them. We 
may be thankful that their number is not larger, and ap- 
pears to be diminishing, as civilization — ameliorating 
civil conditions and evolving social law — gives wider 
scope for opportunity to individual independence, and 
multiplies the chances for better things. 

However, for those who are ordinarily prudent and 
right-minded, with even a moderate share of good for- 
tune, old age has boundless amenities. The dread of 
death now constantly diminishes. Although with sound 
health, well-nourished youthful feelings, and natural buoy- 
ancy of spirits, we may still love life greatly, yet, as it 
wanes, we are more readily reconciled to the suggestion 
that the end is near. 

To some the continual dropping away of one's contem- 
25 



386 R UMTNA TIONS. 

poraries effects a benumbing indifference to all surround- 
ings, as well as to what may happen to themselves in that 
way. To others, of keener sagacity and more generous 
minds, the continuance of their years, beyond those of 
their companions, appears rather to be the grateful boon 
of an excess of opportunity for enjoyment — beyond the 
lot of their general co-heirs of mortality. Noting, too, how 
many of those we had loved have gone already, we are 
the less inclined to fret over what is inevitable. For we 
are steadily reminded that we soon must follow, only be- 
cause we have not been called before. 

Although we cannot longer blink the fact of the in- 
creasing nearness of the approach of death — an event so 
many men are prone, blindly, to regard as the sum of all 
calamities — nevertheless, in this matter, Nature usually 
inclines to deal kindly with those who treat her fairly. 
As time passes on, the acuteness of our sensibility to 
the touch of the Destroyer is gently dulled by the 
gradual loss of eagerness and avidity in those cruder 
faculties of mind and heart that made us cling to life 
so fondly. 

Nay, infirmity sometimes so overtakes the capacities 
which make ordinary life desirable, that its duration may 
be less tolerable than the blow that extinguishes it. It 
may indeed happen that — so far from the nearness of 
death being an unalloyed evil attendant upon old age — 
the apprehension of too much life will be sometimes more 
dreadful than that of death. Since it is not death itself, so 
much as the act of dying, that most men fear, it well may be 
reckoned, among the alleviations of advancing life, that 
this unavoidable transition, from here to hereafter, in so 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 387 

many ways grows less and less formidable, as our years 
accumulate. 

Many also may be the more cheerful consolations of an 
old man. To begin with, at the least the past is largely 
his own. His memory is pretty sure to cling to the stores 
of that treasure-house with loving tenacity, so long as the 
lamp of life holds out. If it be conceded possible, that 
an enjoyment of the retrospect of pleasure may sometimes 
be as great as the realization has been, perhaps here is 
an indestructible fund, of some amount, out of which he 
may always draw at sight — upon the bank of happiness — 
for a currency, as good as coined gold. In this spirit 
Lamb said : " Amid the mortifying circumstances at- 
tendant upon growing old it is something to have seen 
the "' School for Scandal ' in its glory." 

What others are still climbing mountains, or ploughing 
distant oceans, or circumambulating the very globe, to 
see, one, with closed eyes, often may summon before him, 
and bid await his leisure for a revision. If he miss the 
pleasure, so also he will avoid the shock, of ignorant sur- 
prise, over apparently new things. While his younger 
neighbors are startled at the seeming novelty, or amazed 
at the suddenness, of events in the natural, political, or 
social world, he calmly contrasts, or compares, them with 
familiar precedents in his memory ; and involuntarily 
smiles superior, in recognition of the similitude. 

A simple minor expedient for relieving the tedium of 
waning days sometimes may be found in the reperusal of 
such books as have charmed us, or influenced our con- 
duct, at various periods — whether of youth or later in 
life. They can open many hidden doors for deep self- 



388 R UMINA TIONS. 

introspection. As there will be no itch of notoriety — to 
be either appeased or sold to magazines — nor any eaves- 
dropper to blab the secrets of one's confessional, the 
catalogue of favorites need not be limited to such a 
dreary array as has been revealed to the public by some 
worthy celebrities of our day. Such reminiscent explor- 
ations will often suggest a forgotten clue for entertaining 
self-study. They can tell us pretty clearly what kind of 
creatures we once were — what we liked or disliked, hoped 
for or disdained, at other times — and how widely we may 
have varied our very identity with changing years. 

Now, too, may we look, from an advantageous point of 
view, at the oscillating of the civilized world, in its 
hoped-for progress toward our own ideal, or toward what 
we have supposed to be its purpose or drift ; — while at the 
same time recognizing our own gradual growth of char- 
acter. Such a method of contemplation — even if it be 
shorn of some of the fascinating allurements of earlier 
enthusiasm — perhaps the more easily may reconcile us to 
the near good-bye awaiting us, and to the final change 
in ourselves. 

Although one is no longer exhilarated by the daring 
and recklessness of youth, neither has he its revulsions of 
feeling. If we forego many of the joys of early days, yet 
we are no longer helpless victims of the caprice of the 
temporal passions that then mastered us. If one do not 
rise so high in the scale of pleasurable excitement, neither 
is he likely to sink so low in the revulsive abyss of des- 
pondency. Calmly we may look down, as it were from a 
distant height, upon the world's broad field of battle — 
afar from the shock, the din, the heat, the dust, and 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 389 

sweat of heroes contending in the common struggle for 
precedence, fame, or power. 

The later years of a man of intellectual pursuits — who 
has cultivated habits of independent thought and self- 
contemplation — are sometimes peculiarly opulent in their 
sober pleasantness. By reason of experienced observa- 
tion, and the extinction of some illusory cross-lights that 
have been an enduring source of dazzling bewilderment, 
the medium through which he now looks at the vista be- 
fore him becomes more clear. Now countless obscuri- 
ties, that have long baffled the understanding, become 
easily explainable. 

In early life a very embarrassing impediment to the 
consistent conduct of one's understanding is an inability 
to comprehend the proper relation of things to each other 
— facts and ideas or principles apparently either inde- 
pendent or contradictory ; also what things are important 
or essential, what merely factitious or temporary; and 
more than all what are seminal ideas or pivotal facts, and 
what are the mere accidents of time or the frail blossoms 
of budding thought — what a too prodigal efflorescence, 
and what a truly ripened fruit, of the revolving seasons. 
For, alas, to the immature mind, how many of the signal 
events of the world's current history appear to be more or 
less isolated or self-dependent. Apparently they are 
not the parts of any system, or even the links in any 
chain of events, or the evolution of any reciprocating 
law, or indeed with any necessary coherence at all. 

Even in middle life we cannot (as later we may, through 
knowledge and reflection) lift ourselves easily to that 
lofty vantage-ground necessary to enable us to view all 



390 R UMINA TIONS. 

things comprehensively. Not seeing them as the depend- 
ent parts of a necessary entirety, we are unable, often- 
times, to detect their inevitable relations to each other ; 
or to know when one thing is found that its correlative 
must exist somewhere — as it were clearly bringing order 
and significance out of apparent confusion. 

However, in life's autumn, a partial removal from the 
eddying whirl of the business of current affairs can give 
the mind that leisure, peace, and repose, undisturbed by 
fugitive details — which is necessary to the power of seeing 
things in grand masses — so as to read the meaning of the 
present by the clear light of the past. At such a period 
one may learn also, not too late, that, while in a certain 
abstract sense nothing is essentially new, yet in another 
concrete, or practical sense, almost everything — by reason 
of new facts, and unanticipated combinations of fact, 
with the consequent birth of novel suggestions — may 
differ in some aspects, in our day and for our needs, from 
what has been before. But, although the innumerable 
elements that make up passing events, or modify current 
thought, are constantly producing such new commixtures, 
and novel results, still, to the analytic eye of philosophic 
age the materials of the medley are as old as the peopled 
earth ; and the general laws that control them, under 
definite circumstances, are as certain as gravitation. 

Now also it grows easy to see that received opinion — 
whether religious, moral, political, civil, or social, be it 
particular or general — is commonly not spontaneous, or 
even always logical, but more frequently rather historical 
and progressive — the irregular growth of long periods of 
time and emergency. Sometimes, too, it is found to be the 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 39 1 

unsuspected outcome of an unapprehended concatena- 
tion of self-repeating circumstances. In this view, we 
may perhaps import a fresh catholicity even into such 
moral ideas as control our notions of right and wrong, in 
human affairs. We no longer close our eyes to the fact 
that a popular standard of rectitude is not always fixed, 
like an inexorable law of physical nature, but varies with 
shifting circumstances — appearing often to be rather 
modal than essential— so that what is good, right, and 
necessary at one social period, becomes bad, wrong or 
indifferent at another. 

Indeed, as age creeps over us, one grows somewhat in- 
clined to agree with that prince of stoics, Marcus Aure- 
lius, who so often reiterates : — "All is opinion " — " life is 
opinion." Such views would have been unfortunate, for 
us in younger days ; — either as the baleful means of pre- 
venting us from fixing a rigid standard of ethics within 
ourselves, or as leading us to slight the cherished morals 
of the society in which we may have chanced to live. In 
age however, while we are no longer unaware that a pre- 
vailing rule of right and wrong often lacks divine author- 
ity, we calmly perceive it is the best the time permits, 
and its practical necessity easily justifies its rigid main- 
tenance. In other like matters we nourish our equanim- 
ity, by a cheerful acquiescence, in an established order 
of things. Now we may see clearly that convenience is 
commonly a better test of practical wisdom, in human 
affairs, than a mere consistency with untried notions of 
some fanciful, but barren, ideal perfection. 

Perhaps some of these suggestions — common though 
they be — may be pressed here, not unpardonably, with a 



392 J? UMINA TIONS. 

little further diffuseness. In youth, and even in middle 
age, the mind of the intellectual man is always more or 
less perplexed and harassed with countless problems or 
apparent riddles — both mental and moral — that ignorance, 
inexperience, prejudice, false-education, and deficient 
mental, moral, or social independence, prohibit him from 
solving. Most men live the larger part of their lives in a 
hazy atmosphere, which is often thickened with doubt — if 
it be not darkened by despair — concerning matters of 
profound consequence to them, and sometimes even 
vital to their continuing peace of mind. Forced, by their 
surroundings and peculiar limitations, to look oftentimes 
at the most distracting questions touching their cher- 
ished hopes and aims in life, unaided — from a single and 
perhaps illusory point of view — they are unavoidably 
•compelled to substitute one enigma for another ; — not 
seldom benumbing, or puzzling, their understandings by 
some mere juggle of pedantic or dogmatic words. 

However as one descends the downhill side of life, he, 
the more readily, shakes himself free from such shackles. 
Sweet self-deception, whose charms we have been accus- 
tomed to hug to our bosoms in a Circean embrace — as al- 
ready suggested — grows unalluring. Her blandishments 
now vainly besiege our unwilling ears. By a knowledge of 
the world and its vicissitudes, acquired through a practi- 
cal participation in its varied affairs ; by the reading of 
lives and conduct of many men, and of manners, customs, 
and polity of numerous peoples ; by the study and ob- 
servation of the multiform seed-facts that time has sown 
in the ploughed ground of contemporaneous history, 
which has been opened to sunlight during our long life 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 393 

— with the consequent broadening or lighting up of our 
mental or moral outlook and the necessary liberalizing of 
our views — -now the medium through which we gaze out 
upon the vast sea of humanity is wonderfully clarified. 

We read, between the lines, the elliptical story of the 
Book of Life. Things before insignificant now exhibit 
their uses. Disorder and confusion melt and fuse into 
regularity, until distracting problems and enigmas work 
out their own solution. The high colors of passion fade 
in the mental spectrum. The judicial faculty continues 
to ripen by intrinsic growth ; and gains in impartiality 
from the loss of some temporal anxieties that were wont 
to embarrass its independence. True, the once coveted 
sweetness of many of the delusions of life has gone — ex- 
cept perhaps a delicious attar that still perfumes the secret 
chambers of memory. Yet the turbulent passions — which 
made the survival of such delusions so long possible — 
have cooled, and halcyon days of philosophic tranquillity 
have supervened. 

Many protracted studies in science, art, and literary 
entertainment, that long have been forbidden almost by 
pressing cares — and especially by the unavoidable but 
harassing interruptions of busier days — may now be 
pursued with delight. The great world of society also — 
in some of its political, civil, domestic, and even local as- 
pects — often assumes an interest it never had for us before. 
For one of the highest of intellectual enjoyments is to 
look upon mankind as a continuing race — of which every 
man is a part or a significant factor — and upon the aggre- 
gate of human affairs as a perpetuating entirety. 

During most of the life-time of people generally, as has 



394 R UMINA TIONS. 

already been noted, nearly every subject or event is pre- 
sented to the mind in fragments — more or less in appar- 
ent collision, if not in actual conflict, with other like or 
contiguous events or subjects. But with the pellucid 
views of these riper years the harmony of the moral uni- 
verse becomes more obvious. We look now upon scenes 
where the parts of things are no longer apparently discor- 
dant or even segregated, but constantly blending. Unity 
becomes the rule, and each part suggests its complement. 

The love of fresh and wide reading, whether as a mere 
temporary amusement, an ornamental accomplishment, or 
a useful resource, usually survives. In this, as in other 
things, we no longer swallow our food in the mass, but 
with a discriminating taste we select the meat that is most 
convenient for us. We do not run riot now over the 
whole field of science, history, philosophy, and belles-let- 
tres — snatching here and there a mouthful, and ending 
with a surfeit of literary indigestion. Neither are we 
very liable to narrow our minds, or paralyze our sympa- 
thies, by riding the hobby of some impracticable spe- 
cialty, in season and out of season, until boredom becomes 
our undisputed territory. The spur to our speed growing 
dull in its rowels, we naturally fall into a jog-pace, and 
pick our way leisurely where the road is easy and the 
prospect cheerful. 

Now also our knowledge of human nature gives a con- 
tinuing zest to the perusal of biography of men and 
women, who have figured in the past, influencing more 
or less the events of the world, or the growth of science, 
learning, or opinion. Long observation of the merciless 
greed of conflicting interests, among individuals, classes. 



♦ 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 395 

or communities, has created a keen desire to watch the 
slow evolution of law in its civil or social aspects. The 
vicissitudes of public events, contemporary with our past 
lives, have shed a new, or vivid, light upon the study of 
politics in the Aristotelean sense of that abused word — 
making the story of national affairs a resource of endless 
interest. The opulence of a long disciplined taste brings 
us into the broader fields of literature — with a calm 
relish for the noble, the inspiring, the beautiful, or the 
amusing, that is neither enslaved by authority, or self- 
deluded by the dread of singularity. The critical judg- 
ment, that has survived the wreck of superstitious, 
childish apprehensions, or provincial maxims of a narrow 
environment, placidly reviews the domain of compara- 
tive religions or philosophies, with a divining prescience 
that almost glows with prophecy. But over and above 
all these, yet blending them into one grand, harmonious 
picture, the recorded history of the human race — drawn 
through its monuments, its laws, and its literature, civil- 
ized or savage, from its archaeological fable to the philo- 
sophical or critical treatise of the present time — opens, 
to the contemplative faculties, that have the comprehen- 
sive power to consider the drama of the development of 
the human race as an entire story, a source of immeasur- 
able pleasure and satisfaction. 

These resources of reading — " dukedom large enough " 
— with consequent reminiscence and reflective thought, 
may cheat infirmity of some of its pains, and can so 
refine or elevate the spirit, that the approach of death 
may come as gently as when one drops from waking 
dreams into dreamless sleep. 



• 



396 R UMINA TIONS. 

Of the limitless consolations afforded by Christian 
Faith to those who are declined into the vale of years, 
this is not the place to speak. Neither is it designed in 
this brief essay to open the windows of the hallowed 
retreats of that vast class of men and women whose ami- 
able superannuation adds a charm to so many a circle 
purely domestic. These thoughts and suggestions are 
addressed rather to those who are sometimes inclined, as 
life progresses, to look forward with dismay to the time 
when their backs shall ache with those burdensome cares 
of an energetic participation in the world's work that 
were once carried so lightly, but which are beginning to 
make their weight felt too oppressively as an irksome 
load. To such persons a timely word, from a looker-on, 
may remind them of the open secret, that, when wisely 
considered and sagaciously regulated, at least the major 
part of the last two decades of a life of fourscore years, 
or perhaps more, may, through divine philosophy, prove 
to be the happiest of the whole series. 




IV. 



PERSONAL IMMORTALITY. 

A Discursive Meditation. 

Divines can say but what themselves believe ; 

Strong proofs they have but not demonstrative ; 
For, were all plain, then all sides must agree, 

And faith itself be lost in certainty. 

Dryden. 




HE possession of that natural individual, moral 
consciousness, which we call a " soul," is 
confessedly the highest attribute claimed by- 
man. This peculiar element of our nature 
distinguishes us from all others of the animal creation — 
however many qualities, good or bad, we may have in 
common with them. So far as we know, dumb animals 
have neither the conception of a Creator, nor the hope of 
a future state of existence. Typifying mere mortal life, 
if they have souls, they are apparently unaware of the 
fact. To themselves — so far as they appear to understand 
the matter — this life is the be-all and the end-all. Should 
we encounter our favorite horses, dogs, or birds in the 
happy-land, their surprise would be doubtless as great as 

397 



398 £ UM1NA T10NS. 

our own. And we might say in passing, since happiness 
in this world consists so largely in a contented enjoyment 
of what is present, perhaps it would not be an extravagant 
or too cynical a conjecture (in the light of some phases 
of modern polemics) that they are the more happy, be- 
cause of their immunity from worry over insoluble prob- 
lems, inscrutable enigmas, paradoxical mysteries, or such 
heroic Roman dogmas, as " the infallibility of the Church, 
and the damnable criminality of error and doubt." 

As a topic of earnest meditation, this subject can never 
grow stale. Speculation concerning it, however unsatis- 
factory, begets increasing curiosity. Necessarily, it 
involves personally every human being — at least from the 
beginning of the world to the end of time. The best evi- 
dence relating to it — be it intuitive, demonstrative, or 
only probable ; or whether derived from Revelation, 
natural reason, or what is called " Christian experience " 
— is vague in substance, outline, and detail. The door of 
honest inquiry, therefore, is opened widely to the boldest 
thought, the profoundest reflection, and the most varied 
conjecture. If not concerning its verity, as a vital reli- 
gious doctrine, at least this is true so far as respects its 
possible bearing and effect upon human nature and con- 
duct, individual and social, here as well as hereafter. 

Whence comes, and what is that " longing after im- 
mortality," which the poet takes for granted to be the 
instinctive wish of every human heart ? Is it a real desire, 
for a well-defined, perpetual state of existence, belonging 
to the whole human race ? It is hot easy to understand 
an intelligent, or healthy longing for that which it is 
impossible to comprehend fairly. We can no more con- 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 399 

ceive of the condition of innumerable myriads of disem- 
bodied spirits of deceased men, women, and children, in 
a life that has no end — where there is neither change of 
seasons, nor night, nor day, nor birth, nor marriage, nor 
death ; nor want, nor care, nor pain, nor labor, nor sor- 
row, nor fear, nor hope, nor expectation, nor any unsatis- 
fied desire — than we can imagine some absurd impossibility 
in geometry, as a triangle with four sides. Does it not 
seem idle, then, for us to speak so familiarly of a uni- 
versal wish of the human race for a happiness, in a 
future state, which we cannot formulate intelligently even 
to ourselves ? 

Yet, when a heart-friend leaves us by death, and we 
feel desolate, in our personal world, without that one, we 
yearn incessantly to see again the face, and to grasp the 
hand, of the one so beloved. We shudder to admit to 
ourselves, that we never may look again upon that form. 
That thought alone wrenches the heart with pain. Never- 
theless this is not so much from a desire for a definite 
future state, as it is that we are pondering mournfully the 
apparent fact of our being separated, from one we love, 
by the impassable barrier of — " Nevermore." Even 
this mere word, at such times, harrows the feelings, and, 
in the freshness of profound grief, seems to chill the 
blood. Only when time has steadied the nerves, when 
emotion has subsided or become subordinate to the 
teachings of reason, and sensibility is dulled by diversion 
or routine, do we look temperately again upon a condi- 
tion of things seemingly inscrutable. Then we may 
remember, with Goethe, that " man is not born to solve 
the problem of the universe, but to find out where the 



400 R UM1NA TIONS. 

problem begins, and then, to restrain himself within the 
limits of the comprehensible. ,, 

What, to our conception, is this immortality ? Dumas 
fils, in his eulogy upon Victor Hugo, said : — " When a de- 
vout man dies, convinced that he shall have eternal bliss, 
it is as if he really had it. That moment is worth 
eternity — perhaps embraces it." Of course no man can 
expect to be able to form a sensible, precise idea of eter- 
nity, or even of perpetuity. To attempt it would be at 
least as absurd, as the endeavor to put a giant into the 
clothes of a dwarf. As Pierre Nicole says : — " L'eternite 
rompt toute mesure et detruit toute comparaison." But 
to a mind full to the measure of its capacity, it is imma- 
terial whether any excess offered be more or less. When 
the soul is wrought up to such a pitch of excitement that 
it fully comprehends, and yields itself to, one supreme 
instant of ecstasy, the past and future — memory and fore- 
cast — are swallowed in the conception of that particular 
moment. To itself, there is only a constant — " Now." 
To its own instant comprehension it is as if nothing ever 
had been, or could be, otherwise. Analysis and compar- 
ison are not possible. If that moment be absolutely 
happy, it is "eternal bliss." Such has been the expiring 
consciousness of a martyr— sublimated beyond physical 
pain — floating into the everlasting. What mattered it to 
him then, whether that " eternity " of happiness was in 
fact only an instant in duration followed by oblivion, or 
a perpetuity ? As he could look neither backward nor 
forward, regret was impossible, while hope and fruition 
of joy were one. In what respect would one such con- 
centrated instant of time (if followed by immediate anni- 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH, 40I 

hilation) fall below his notion of a perpetual duration of 
the same exaltation ? The capacity of his whole emotional, 
mental, and spiritual nature, being absolutely satiated, 
the immediate moment must s in to his consciousness 
everlasting — so far as such an idea is then, by him, con- 
ceivable. In this sense, at least, a devout believer might be 
allowed to win and wear his crown of immortal glory — in 
spite of any malign doubt engendered by an agnostic's claim 
to superior sagacity, learning, or wisdom in this matter. 

Outside of Revelation, however — perhaps it cannot be 
repeated too often — "all we know is, nothing can be 
known " of the soul of a man — either before his mortal 
life began, or after his bodily death. How it comes to be 
born, whenever a man is created ; whether he had an 
ante-natal soul ; or whether that principle of life, called 
the soul, is anything more than a manifestation of the 
chief attribute of a perishable body ; or whether it is 
something immortal that can be transmitted to another 
perishable body here, or to some imperishable body here- 
after — we are unable alike, without some supernatural 
revelation, to discover. The analogies of nature, drawn 
from the animating principle of the animal or vegetable 
world, seem to indicate it to be a temporary property of 
the bodily organization, and to forbid us to expect — or 
too confidently even to hope — anything for the individual, 
after the extinction of this earthly life. What sometimes 
is called the instinctive desire for perpetuity, appears, to 
the understanding, to relate to a continuity of the race 
alone. But, although — aside from Revelation — we may 
know nothing of a possible ultimate future for us, we can 

not dogmatically say: — "There can be none." And 
26 



402 R UMINA TIONS. 

although we may guess only whence we came, or why we 
came at all, we may not doubt there is involved in the 
creation and conduct of the immeasurable universe, some 
definite plan, of which we are a significant, if not an 
essential, part. 

Nevertheless — since man is by nature a pious-minded, 
or at least a superstitious creature — from the beginning 
of this world, imagination, fear, hope, and other willing 
passions and instincts of men have been played upon 
successfully, by religious enthusiasts and impostors, for 
good or evil. They have generally assumed every man 
to possess an imperishable soul, subject to the caprice, or 
to the man-like temper, of an omnipotent, humanly per- 
sonified Creator of a universe, of which they have fancied 
this earth is at least the moral centre ! 

Upon bold hypotheses, as facts, they have built vast 
superstructures of marvels, fables, theories, ceremonials, 
and resonant apothegms, which, among their votaries, 
have been commonly called religions. Being founded 
generally — as respects supernatural authority — upon 
nothing but superstitious or fraudulent fiction, such 
systems have grown easily into colossal labyrinths of 
dogma and creed, befogged with allegorical mysticism. 
Puzzling and bewildering, by their rites and symbols, they 
have survived by inspiring men, women, and children, 
with alternate terror and hope. Having invented an un- 
discoverable terra incognita, their founders have opened a 
field where human ingenuity — unembarrassed by fact — 
has been free to formulate whatever chimeras or enigmas 
will or convenience might suggest. By the aid of power 
and opportunity — working upon the credulous apprehen- 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 403 

sions and eager wishes of ignorant and timid people — 
they have found means to establish, and sometimes 
forcibly to maintain, their devices. There not being a 
single affirmative fact, beyond that of apparent creation 
— or of life and death — as a guide, nor evident limit to 
conjectural possibility beyond the suggestion of a bare 
denial, a great number of minds, for an indefinite period 
in the history of mankind, hitherto have been able — 
chiefly by forestalling the religious impressions of youth- 
ful or ignorant minds — to cajole, or frighten into abject 
submission, vast numbers of the human race. Over a 
large part of the habitable globe they have prevailed, by 
at first inventing riddles, and then by exalting or torment- 
ing human beings, with plausible endeavors to solve 
them — or at least to penetrate imaginary mysteries. 

Their victims do not seem to have considered that the 
assumption of the personal immortality of a soul neces- 
sarily might involve the inexplicable supposition that it 
never had a beginning. They seem also to have taken 
for granted that an endless personal rational conscious- 
ness would be not only endurable by every one, but also 
necessarily desirable. Or, even if — to make the beati- 
tude more alluring — they sometimes counted upon a total 
transubstantiation of the present consciousness of a man, 
many seemed to have overlooked the fact that we may 
realize an immortality superior to that, through our pos- 
terity alone ; — without subjecting ourselves to a possible 
chance of intolerable weariness from an everlasting 
unchangeable personal identity. No such perplexing 
problems of definiteness appear to have disturbed seri- 
ously the vacuousness of their ecstatic anticipations. 



404 & UMINA T/OATS. 

Out of man's capability for conceiving this idea of the 
possibility that something unknown, good or bad, shall 
happen to his individual moral consciousness hereafter — 
somewhere beyond the precincts of the sphere of this 
mortal life — what a vast amount of the practical material 
of actual social existence has been contrived ! The 
potency of this factor in the affairs of mankind cannot 
be exaggerated. It opens a channel for exploitation of 
the whole spirituality of man's nature ; always broaden- 
ing and deepening — never to be closed. 

From being, in the beginning — irrespective of divine 
Revelation — apparently a sort of random conjecture, or a 
loose unscientific inference from abnormal, or supposi- 
titious, experience and dubious fact, this conception of an 
immortal soul has been so often made use of — by saga- 
cious men, in their desire to elevate or dominate others 
— that, in the course of ages, it has been, as it were, the 
pivot of nearly all the important motives which have 
controlled the highest phases, social as well as individual, 
of human conduct. From some points of view, it seems 
almost as if human nature itself had been turned topsy- 
turvy ; — so that, in some communities for some classes, 
the crown of the column has become its base. Such has 
been also the luxuriant growth of man's natural capacity 
for so-called beliefs in what he was pleased to call a 
perpetual state of his existence, and such varieties of 
suggestion swarm among its limitless possibilities, that in 
communities wherever such a belief has been formulated 
into the basis of a systematic religion, many men and 
women seem to have reckoned their self-absorption in 
reveries of a remote thought-world, apart from temporal 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 405 

affairs, to be their only real life — even during their 
mortal existence. 

Among ourselves, inheritance of pious tendencies, 
early impressions or training, and the practical univer- 
sality of a recognition of the absolute verity of our 
Christian theology, all have worked together, so that, 
when one comes to man's estate, the twisted threads of 
memory, association, and a tutored consciousness of what 
are known as spiritual ideas, form the ligamental part of 
his whole mental and moral history. Even practical men 
sometimes talk of their inner personal consciousness, its 
experiences or raptures, and of their anticipations of the 
outcome of its immortality, almost as confidently as of 
actualities. Indeed with some, these things seem to be 
more real than the fleeting reminiscence of passing occur- 
rences, or than the substantial purposes and facts of 
their every-day world. 

With others, whose imagination and sensibility are 
acutely alive to morbid impressions, such a habit of inner- 
self -contemplation or spiritual reverie — whether in hours 
of joy or sadness — becomes an inexhaustible source of 
exquisite emotion. In not a few persons, this peculiar 
exercise of self-consciousness ripens to a kind of disease ; 
— so abnormal does its outgrowth become, in comparison 
with other intellectual attitudes, and so far beyond what 
a plain understanding indicates to be its due propor- 
tion in a well-balanced character. With some of such 
people, energy, that should blossom into action, fades 
away, or evaporates in fruitless day-dreams. In this 
direction also lies the germ of much morbid melancholy, 
not seldom too tenderly nourished. It is a state of mind. 



406 J? UMINA TIONS. 

that, when in apparent distress, however, does not deserve 
much sympathy ; for its root is usually an over-indulged 
selfishness, or at least self-pity. Not infrequently it is 
the flower of merely discontented indolence ; — being 
found to flourish most abundantly where there is the 
least real discomfort, and therefore called the voluptu- 
ousness of pain. But who can estimate, or characterize, 
the vagaries of an exaggerated, morbid self-conscious- 
ness ? 

One will sometimes fancy he has within his soul a 
mystical susceptibility ; — not unlike that of an aeolian 
harp giving forth sad strains of vague music, as the sigh- 
ing wind passes across its chords. Another, when hope 
for immortal happiness seems to falter, may hear the 
voices of the loved and lost, crying : — " Never again." 
These doleful sounds he fancies resemble an echo from 
afar, like the moaning of the sea, when a storm is rising ; 
or as if such plaintive notes were a resonance of the 
waves of Eternity, beating against the shores of Time. 
Especially to persons so constituted does a lively faith 
in an everlasting future seem to be a necessary element 
of their mortal existence. Without this faith, as an 
anchor, they fear to drift (and perhaps, by reason of an 
excess of it, sometimes do drift) into the shoreless sea 
of moral insanity. 

To the minds of most men, apparently from an incal- 
culably remote period, some undefinable notion of future 
personal existence has been, somehow, not only a refuge 
in their hours of affliction, or depression, but also the 
essence of their moral subsistence. Without a conviction 
pf its. necessary verity, their individual life would seem 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 407 

to be, for them, a mere succession of incoherent events, 
leading to nothing ; — with no real purpose or significance. 
In the last analysis of their profoundest emotions of 
sorrow and anguish, the prospective compensations of a 
future state have enabled them to seem to solve most of 
the embarrassing enigmas, to reconcile the apparent in- 
consistencies and to clear up the mysteries, they sometimes 
find evolved by their theory of the divine conduct of the 
affairs of this world. Amid the severest trials of life, 
they appear to have sought and discovered a solace in 
the contemplation of this notion of some unformulated 
state of beatitude beyond the grave. 

When all the resources of temporal human-nature have 
failed to sustain their fortitude, this faith in a personal 
immortality has opened for them a door to the widest 
conjecture concerning such a future universe of occupa- 
tion and enjoyment as shall be most pleasing and satis- 
factory to each one's individual wishes. For, to many 
speculative and devout minds, there is a prodigious fasci- 
nation in the vague idea, that, notwithstanding the vicis- 
situdes of this mortal existence — however severe they 
may be — yet in a future state, whose duration shall ex- 
tend beyond possible conception, all that is merely 
irksome, as well as all that is painful, shall somehow 
cease ; while positive joy, and unending happiness 
of some kind, in some indescribable manner, shall 
be the normal and unbroken condition of even such 
minds and hearts, and perhaps bodies, as we now 
possess. 

It would be idle perhaps to suggest — at least to a pagan 
believer of this speculative class — that he has no- faculties 



408 R UMINA TIONS. 

to appreciate such a state of things ; that every notion of 
which he is now capable of conceiving must be finite in 
its nature, deducible from his present experience and the 
use of his merely human powers ; since it is quite as easy 
for him to suppose new capacities will be given to enable 
him to comprehend, and take to himself all the oppor- 
tunities of the new situation, as it is for him to fix his 
belief upon undefined resources of a fathomless future. 
In vain would one venture to suggest to him that his 
original nature, and all that embraces his present self- 
identity, either would be obliterated wholly by so miracu- 
lous a change from the old to the new existence he pre- 
supposes, or would be lost utterly in its infinitesimalness, 
amid the grandeur of his new attributes and the 
magnificence of the exercise of them. For his spiritual 
explorations are not only limitless, but untrammelled by 
mortal logic, or even coherent spiritual insight. He would 
readily imagine another miraculous variation of alleged 
law, by means of which the lesser, or inferior condition, 
would cease to suffer in comparison with the greater or 
superior one. All that he loved or wished for in this life, 
could be realized in perpetuity, without a satiety conse- 
quent upon endless repetition, and also, without in the 
least diminishing his fitness for an entirely new and in- 
dependent state of existence ! In other words, when 
boundless faith in the unknown and inconceivable takes 
possession of the human mind, its exaltation is beyond 
the test of what is commonly called reason. An indefin- 
able spirituality dominates him, and miracles become his 
natural food. True it is, that the majority of mankind 
— possibly even among Christians — do pot always rise to 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 409 

this implicit realistic faith in the everlasting future ex- 
istence of their special personal identity. Nevertheless, 
the substitution, in many cases, of what is considered a 
well-grounded hope for such things, is composed of very 
similar material, and carries its willing subject nearly as 
far ; although sometimes with an unequal or hesitating 
pace. 

Not unfrequently it is urged, at least colloquially — as 
a secular argument from reason alone in support of our 
notion of the immortality of the soul — that men always 
have had religions, and generally have believed in some 
future state as well as in the continuation in perpetuity 
of a direct personal relation between God and man. 
The fact of these almost universal, archaic, so-called 
beliefs, is set down as certainly persuasive evidence of a 
primeval revelation of some kind, far back in the ages, 
before the period of recorded history, when the race 
was new, and its relations to its Maker (perhaps directly 
through the heads of tribes or families) were compara- 
tively recent and necessarily recognized. To many 
minds — and especially to those which are sanguine, 
willing, and easily credulous — this seems to be a con- 
vincing probable argument. That a thing must be true, 
because it is, and long has been believed commonly, is 
the plausible reasoning of the ordinary mind. And 
indeed, in general affairs, it is familiar experience that 
we are all prone to act, more or less, upon conclusions, 
with no surer basis for our understanding, or better logic 
for our belief, than mere probabilities to support them. 
However, in the common practical concerns of life, such 
belief rests upon apparent and well-accredited objective 



4 1 R UMINA TIONS. 

experience, or upon inferences from admitted facts. 
Besides, in ordinary matters such conclusions, if erro- 
neous, are liable constantly to correction, by frequent 
recurrence of the same, or similar facts, or of like external 
experiences. With a belief in a future state of existence, 
however, and its supernatural concomitants, there is 
obviously always this profound distinction ; such belief 
must rest either upon an assumption of something not 
self-evident, or upon some kind of a revelation. The 
first at any time may be found to be gratuitous, or with- 
out deserved universal assent. The latter — except with 
those who are spiritually satisfied with what is now called 
"the evidences of Christian experience," or its unsancti- 
fied similitude — must rest finally upon ancient historical 
proofs, traditional or written, that are always open to 
be questioned. As learning, science, or the skepticism 
of a refined civilization advance, doubts arise ; and 
assertion can have but little, if any, chance of absolute 
verification, at this late period of time. Moreover, 
in any case, the value of merely probable evidence — 
as a basis of conviction or faith — must, of course, be 
somewhat measured by the magnitude, or abnormality, 
of the conclusion sought to be established, by such 
evidence. 

Is there undue harshness then in the judgment that 
pronounces this so-called argument, from the mere fact 
of a general popular belief up to an absolute verity of the 
thing believed — however specious, or even dominant 
with the philosophers of pagan antiquity — to be falla- 
cious ? Primarily, it assumes that the human mind, 
reasoning from the history of its own operations, is in- 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 4 1 I 

fallible. It is as if one were to say, as some often do : 
" I believe, because I always have believed. " But the 
mind is necessarily controlled by its own special limita- 
tions, as well as by whatever idiosyncrasies — through 
birth, early impression, or education in its largest sense — 
are peculiar to itself. At best, such an argument — at 
least for all natural religion — comes only to this : — A 
belief in the supernatural, or in the future state, is a 
continuing spontaneous intuition of our nature, and 
therefore the thing believed must exist. This proposi- 
tion assumes too much. Is not the wish father to the 
thought ? Would it not be much wiser, and even safer 
logic (if we had no specific Revelation) to say that He 
who made man knew that an essential element of our 
happiness here would be a belief of that sort ; and there- 
fore, in order to sustain and perpetuate the race, He 
gave such belief to us, as a part of our nature, just as 
He gave us our other instincts, passions, appetites, and 
intellectual characteristics ? Shall it be said : " It is in- 
credible that we would be created with so strong a 
desire as this so-called ' longing after immortality/ if it 
were wholly dependent upon a mere illusion ?" But 
is not the happiness of our whole lives sustained by a 
continuous series of somewhat similar illusions ? If this 
belief had no other origin than what has just been sug- 
gested, how would such a source differ essentially from 
the ordinary sweet illusions of life, that bloom in youth, 
and gradually fade, as years creep over us ; — except that, 
perhaps, in order to justify the purpose of its existence, 
it might be found to endure somewhat longer than these 
others. But this qualification, cannot be urged with too 



412 R UMINA TIONS. 

much assurance of certainty. It is understood to be the 
common melancholy experience of those who limit their 
belief in immortality to the arguments which sustain 
natural religion, that their faith in the supernatural, and 
their hope for a happy future, grow weaker as life passes 
on. Indeed it is even liable to exhale altogether, when 
they approach the dark valley and stand most in need of 
the " fact " of a Christian faith as a rod and staff, to 
support their tottering steps. 

Perhaps, it is not too much to say, that (like all other 
arguments outside of Christian Revelation) these popu- 
lar so-called proofs rest upon plausible fallacies and 
fascinating self-sufficiencies, that rather tend to hurt, 
than to benefit the cause of a sound faith in the facts of 
our Divine Religion. Without this Gospel Revelation 
it appears to be not possible for us to know, or even to 
conceive coherently, aught of these things. On that 
basal rock we must rest or have no foundation whatever. 
Beyond that there is no valid rational proof ; and, more- 
over, we seem to be without the capacity to comprehend 
it if any there were. As St. Paul frankly confessed to 
the believers of his day : " If Christ be not risen, then is 
our preaching vain, and your faith vain." Indeed, some 
of the stoutest defenders of Christianity add another 
condition, and concede that the truth of this Revela- 
tion itself can be proved only to those that antecedently 
assume the existence of a personal God, who is the moral 
Governor of the world. So narrow, it would seem to the 
mere understanding of man, is the only plank to which 
we may cling, in order to escape total shipwreck of our 
sublime hope of a personal immortality. 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 413 



My role in life-to-come what faith dare scan ? 

How shall I claim a right to live again, 
Myself to be — or yet another man ? 

This light put out, will aught of me remain ? 

We smile and weep through many changeful years ; 

We dream ; we watch earth's phantoms come and go, 
We see what manhood hopes, or age reveres, 

Fade out, and vanish as an idle show. 

We live and love ; we strive and hope, and pray 
For what we cannot hear or see or know ; 

Absorb the pleasures of the passing day, 
Then drop asleep as still as falling snow. 

If this be all, if death our goal and end, 

Though pain and sorrow be but foils to joy, 

The past, the present, and the future blend 
Till Time's pure gold is lost in the alloy. 

Not so. Be God or Law the primal cause, 
Some purpose was, when man began to be — 

Some vast design whose work will never pause 
Till Cosmos reach perfectibility. 

What share be mine, in vain for me to ask — 

An atom in this grand economy — 
To love my neighbor as myself, my task, 

Not questioning divine autonomy. 




V. 
NIL DESPERANDUM 



■noble minds contemn despair. 

Marlowe. 



NO bounds are set for star-eyed Hope ; 
The arm of God hath given her scope, 
Beyond the darkness where we grope : 
None but the blind and sluggish mope ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

O Iris-tinted Dream of youth ! 

Unheeding Time's corrosive tooth, 
We read the gospel of thy ruth, 

Red-lettered in the Book of Truth ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

Impartial Hope ! A leveller thou, 

That stoops to kiss the humblest brow ; 

E'en though thy smile illude us now, 
Still, at thy shrine, we make our vow ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

No lot is chosen ; each is drawn : 
The keenest pang is soonest gone : 
414 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. 415 

The darkest hour is nearest dawn : 

Some arch will span, where chasms yawn ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

A hero is the world's delight : 

True glory is celestial light ; 
O Soldier, in the direst fight, 

O Sailor, in the roughest night, 
Hope on, hope ever. 

While throbs this restless thing called life, 

With mingled joy and sorrow rife, 
Rouse all thy courage for its strife ; 

War with dejection to the knife ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

Though love despondent chill thy heart, 

Or hatred rive twin souls apart, 
Or broken faith hath left a smart, 

Time hath a magic healing art ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

If Fortune turn her wheel from thee, 

Or Friendship prove a mockery ; 
Each year is not a Jubilee, 

The Future shall thy guerdon be ; 
Hope on, hope e\*fcr. 

When serpent-toothed Ingratitude 

Would kindness from thy heart exclude, 
Expand thy narrow brotherhood ; 



4 1 6 R UMINA TIONS. 

Embrace the helpless multitude ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

Hath Slander, with envenomed' tongue, 
Thy bosom nigh to madness stung ? 

Live down the lie, thy foes among, 

And put to shame the babbling throng ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

Doth Pleasure's bait thy feet incline 

To sty of Epicurus' swine ? 
Though all thy stars neglect to shine, 

Remember that a soul is thine ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

Is thy proud heart benumbed with shame ? 

Hast blemished a once-honored name ? 
Burn pure in penitential flame ; 

Thy manhood and thy will reclaim ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

Should Death invade thy pretty fold, 
Where Love and Duty vigils hold, 

And snatch thy lambs despite thy gold, 
Let not thy halting trust grow cold ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

When Faction shakes the tottering State, 
Or Parties strive with fiendish hate ; 

Heed not the cry— " It is too late ; " 
Immortal Truth will pause and wait ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 



CONCERNING LIFE AND DEATH. \\J 

Dost dread agnostic to become ; 

With blinded heart, and spirit dumb, 
To measure God by rule of thumb ? 

Oh ! never to thy doubt succumb ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

Expect the mysteries, of pain 

And moral evil, to be plain, 
As Law unwinds her endless chain, 

Till Faith assumes her throne again ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

Whatever portents crowd the sky, 

Look up beyond thy misery, 
Nor nurse the evil in thine eye ; 

Some angel unawares is nigh ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 

I am not what I seem to be, 

Nor am I bond, nor am I free ; 
The Lord-of-all is Lord of me ; 

To Him I yield the victory ; 
Hope on, hope ever. 



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INDEX. 



Absence of Religion, 311 
Advice, 126 
Age, Spirit of the, 308 
Amateur Writing, 342 
Amenities of Old Age, 377 
America, Great Fortunes in, 251 
American Lady, The Ideal, 5 
American Politics, 260 
American Social Restlessness, 266 
America, Woman Suffrage in, 50 
Amusement, 204 
Ancestors, 169 
Appearances, Social, 295 
Approach of Old Age, 371 
Authorship, 338 
Authors, Infelicity of, 350 
Authors' Rights, 338 
Autobiography and Gossip, 172 
Art, Fine, A Peep at, 178 

B 

Backward, Teaching, 289 
Balance, Mental, 130 



Basis of Society, Religion as, 287 

Battle of Life, The, 353 

Beautiful Woman, A, 245 

Beauty, Queries about, 160 

Belles-Lettres, Novelty in, 329 

Books, 201 

Books, Borrowing, 199 

Bores, 133 

Brain, Troubles of the, 154 

C 

Censure, Dread of, 140 
Civil Rights of Women, 79 
Confession of Ignorance, 137 
Confidences, 243 
Consistency, 143 
Conspicuousness, 305 
Contemporary Reputation, 346 
Control, Self-, 154 
Courage, 155 
Criticism, 192 

D 

Death, 373 

Death, Life and, 364 



419 



4-- 



INL 



Delusions. Popular, 147 
erandum. Nil, 414 

A Melancholy Man's, 
226 
Doing Nothing, 1 - - 
Domestic Peace. 2 - - 
Do, To, or Not to Do, 311 
Dramatic Faculty, The, 186 
Dread of Censure, 140 



r. ■.;.-:-.::-.. : ; : 

am, 55; 

;:ation, Self-. 150 
Events, Passing, : 
deration, 190 



Faculty, Dramatic, The, 1S6 
idiousness. 135 
:>, 121 
Fine Art. A Peev 
Fortunes, Great, in America. 
The Tret of, 83 
.ldships between Men and 
Women. 42 



Gems of Thought, 200 
Generation of Ice 

Dg Offer. 
Glory, Professional. 1 
Good-Luck, 108 

dp and Autobiography. 172 
Greatness, Recognized, 2 



K 



Happiness, 99 

Hint about Pc 
H y e:".-.'.:.e$>. 112 
Human Nature, Special, S6 
Human Perfectibility, 301 
Human Progress, 307 
Hurry and Ha 



Ideal American Lady. T: 
Ideas, 203 

Ideas, Generation of, 194 
Idoloclasm, 3 
Ignorance, Confession of, 
Illusions, Our, 104 
Immortality, Personal, 5 - 
Indolence, Mental, 151 
Infelicity of Auth ms 34c 
Inferiors, Social, 
Insanity, 147 
Isolation, Social. 



Judging Men. 

K 

Know lee _ 
Knowledge, Self-. 141 



Labor. 2 

Lady, The Ideal American. 5 

Language. 1 u 



:vsiy. 






Li- ::; 

Lie irM 7 -::,:'- ;:_ 
Lie Me r-;r A 55: 
Are 7ii ^e :-; 

Life. Scope of. 365 
L::e 5M-r.-:esi A :: : 
Life. A_;;e^ :~ : _=: 
life, Value of, 367 

L::rTi" 7 y _ Tin: v_: 

l;vr ::" L::"r -:_ 
1 ■••:. 7MM. ;: 
Lu:k 7;.;.i- : f 



--: 
Man's Story, An Unlucky, 236 

. Air :r. AMr>e:- A: A :_; 
Mankind, Respect of. 
Maxims and Proverbs, 200 

] A;.\ ] Mr. A :;; 
Melancholy Mans Devices 

::: 
Yer -~ : . VM~er. "_ 
: A A ■;-• ; ::: 
Me:.:i ?A::e : 3: 
Mental Indolence, : 
Mental Variety, : ja 
Mr- i'.-. :. V." .v.r:. F -erMM.;. - 

:-e: ■ r-er.. _: 
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Moral Vagabond. A. 246 

7Ma; A: A 3:: 



V 



De^enuta, 414 

A = 



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7 A 1^2: ::r. :; 7;s:e-: ; A 

7~e:;e Mr.: 15: 

CM Ace. AzieMr.es ::. :-- 

Omnibus, Thirteenth Man in. 230 

C7-.-::_s 154 



7:.-;. r :r ;:" A A "-; 
Passion, A Ruling. 139 
F:l>>-.- - Ever.:* 153 
7.v>: 77e :a- 
M::e 7 :r.:es:A\ :~~ 
Peep at Fine Ait, A. 
Perfectibility. Human, 301 
Fer>:: "A A"r.:;r.A:: ;. v - 
77:A> :;A-e: Tr.eS;. -;.M:-. r. ::_ 
Philosophy of Self -Indulgence, 

Tnc,94 
177 :■>: M.v. : . r: --. : M 
Poetry, A Hint about, 165 



422 



INDEX. 



Point of View, 292 
Politics, American, 260 
Popular Delusions, 147 
Popularity, Literary, 349 
Posterity, Obligation to, 298 
Preachers, Metropolitan, 220 
Procrastination, 148 
Prodigality of Nature, The, 309 
Professional Glory, 197 
Progress, Human, 307 
Proverbs and Maxims, 200 
Puritan Philosophy, 118 



Queries about Beauty, 160 

R 

Recognized Greatness, 202 
Reformers, 299 
Religion, Absence of, 311 
Religion as Basis of Society, 287 
Religionists, Women as, 70 
Reputation, Contemporary, 346 
Respect of Mankind, 153 
Restlessness, Social American, 

266 
Retaliation, 151 
Right and Wrong, 272 
Rights, Authors', 338 
Ruling Passion, A, 139 



Scope of Life, 365 
Self-Control, 154 
Self-Estimation, 150 



Self-indulgence, Philosophy of, 

94 
Self-Knowledge, 141 
Senility, 372 
Shortness of Life, 201 
Shy Man, A, 245 
Snobbery, 146 
Social Appearances, 295 
Social Inferiors, 303 
Social Isolation, 128 
Social Restlessness, American, 

266 
Social Temper, 149 , 
Society, 247 
Society, Basis of, Religion as, 

287 
Special Human-Nature, 86 
Speculative Philosopher, The, 124 
Spirit of the Age, The, 308 
Story, An Unlucky Man's, 236 
Success in Life, 136 
Suffrage, Woman, in America, 

50 
Superiority, 142 



Teaching Backward, 289 

Temper, Social, 149 

Third Love, 31 

Thirteenth Man in Omnibus, 230 

Thought, Gems of, 200 

Thought, Ways of, 202 

Time, Waste of, 188 

Toleration, 152 

Troubles of the Brain, 154 

Truth, 156 



INDEX. 



423 



U 

Unlucky Man's Story, An, 236 

V 

Vagabond, A Moral, 246 
Value of Life, 367 
Variety, Mental, 153 
Verbal Music, 313 
View, Point of, 292 

W 

Waste of Time, 188 
Ways of Thought, 202 



Why Should Man Live? 312 
Widow, The, 242 
Woman, A Beautiful, 245 
Woman, Her Childlike Nature, 

61 
Woman Suffrage in America, 50 
Woman, Words about, 61 
Women as Religionists, 70 
Women, Civil Rights of, 79 
Women, Friendships between 

Men and, 42 
Women, Men and, 74 
Worry, 88 

Writing, Amateur, 342 
Wrong, Right and, 272 




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